


Playing With Fire

by Blue Kat (AKABlueKat)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Not Canon Compliant, Romance, Slow Burn, Smooching, Trying to Tag This Without Spoiling Plot Points But Things Will Happen, smoochin'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-04-03 21:25:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 112,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14005107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKABlueKat/pseuds/Blue%20Kat
Summary: "Fred Weasley, you're asking me to be your fake girlfriend.""Spot on."He was crazy. His plan was crazy. And yet, I hesitated. Why? I really can't say. Maybe it was the way Fred's eyes glinted in the half-dark of the garden, hinting at possibility and promising me something I didn't quite understand. Maybe I was tired of being careful.





	1. Demons in the Design

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is also posted on FF.net under the pen name Blue Kat. Both posters are me.
> 
> Er...what else? This particular fic sometimes blends movie and book canon (mostly, I go with the books, though). At some point, we will be diverging from canon and veering into alternate timeline territory. But mild alternate timeline--it's not like everyone will suddenly have lasers instead of magic wands or something like that. Basically, I want to avoid some particular...events. You'll see. this will all make sense one day. Beyond that, I always love hearing from readers about what they think, so please feel free to leave feedback!

I knew I would have to dance with one of them before the thought even crossed McGonagall's mind. They had not exactly been keeping a low profile, laughing and cracking jokes near the back of the room. Pairing them both with someone unlikely to complement their taste for trouble was the obvious solution. It was merely a question of which one, Fred or George? Not that I could tell them apart. McGonagall's formal use of "Mr. Weasley" only told me what I already knew from the red hair and freckles. Of course, I could not ask my soon-to-be dance partner of his name—to admit such a thing was to extend a personal invitation to be the victim of some sort of identity prank. No, if I wanted to know anything, it would have to be from my own deductions.

"All right, Lewis?" he asked, grinning as though we were participating in something more fun than a supervised dance lesson.

"Just fine."

McGonagall was pushing his twin toward Alicia, who caught my eye, a resigned half-smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. I gave a slight shrug in response, an acknowledgment of the fact that we were expected to both dance with and supervise the two most mischievous students in the entire noble history of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

His hand went to my waist and I felt my face flush with the utter strangeness of being touched rather intimately by someone new. My left hand tentatively went to his shoulder and he took my right in a cool and firm grasp.

"Nervous?"

"I hardly think a waltz is cause for nerves."

"I was referring to your assigned role of supervisor. It might be a bit much, even for a prefect."

"I'm always good for a challenge."

"Famous last words." His grin was devilish.

"Can I trust you to lead or shall I?"

"I wouldn't dream of steering you wrong, love. Not on the dance floor, at any rate."

He stepped forward and I moved with him. The next few moments passed in silence as we both concentrated on the finer points of the waltz.

"I have to admit, Weasley, you're not half bad," I conceded after a few moments of fairly smooth dancing.

"You sound surprised."

"Well, the average boy your age is uncommonly clumsy." I looked rather pointedly at Andrew Marconi, who'd tripped over his robes.

"Lucky for you I'm not average."

I raised an eyebrow skeptically and briefly considered mentioning that I hardly thought that was his dominant quality. He returned my gaze expectantly, as though he hoped I would verbalize something of that nature so he could twist it into some entirely new and unforeseen direction. Well, I wasn't about to play his game, I decided.

"Whatever you say, Weasley."

He grinned. "You sound doubtful."

"Not at all. You are perhaps the least average person in this room, with the exception of your esteemed brother."

"I assume you mean Ron."

I realized with a sinking sensation that I would have to have a guess at his name after all. Being wrong would not be a simple faux pas—it would likely invite some sort of teasing, perhaps a prank if he was in rare form. I allowed myself a split second to study his face and decide if he looked more like a Fred or a George. I quickly realized I couldn't work it out and decided he had to be Fred for purely alphabetical reasons.

"I was referring to George, actually."

"Oh, you think I'm Fred, do you?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow upward with mild amusement.

"Of course you're Fred."  _Please be Fred._

"What makes you so sure?"

I smiled wryly, mostly to conceal my doubt. "I'm a prefect, aren't I?"

He chuckled. "Your talents are wasted, Lewis. Just think of what you might accomplish with a little more disregard for the rules."

I shrugged. "I rather prefer a plain sort of existence."

Fred—I was certain it was Fred—dipped me quite suddenly and my stomach fairly near dropped to the floor, my breath  _whooshing_  along with it.

"Really?" he said, eyebrow quirked. "I reckon that might get boring."

"I like boring," I said, rather unconvincingly.

He grinned and pulled me out of the dip. "You never know, Lewis: you might be surprised."

At the time, I didn't attach much importance to that sentiment: it was Fred Weasley, after all. I had gotten into the habit of not taking him seriously. It wasn't until later—when I was in over my head—that those words took on a heavier meaning.

I wasn't about to tell him that, though: he gets insufferable when he turns out to be right.

* * *

I suppose that in order to talk about the Yule Ball and the bargain I made, I have to talk about Aidan Kilbourne.

To say that I fancied Aidan Kilbourne felt like an understatement. It was a crush that developed in our third year, over our shared love of murder mysteries by Muggle authors. Somewhere in between  _Murder on the Orient Express_  and  _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ , I fell in love or like or whatever you want to call it. It was intense and real and absolutely secret. On the surface, I was Charlotte Lewis, the prefect and exemplary student who never got distracted by something silly like a boy. Of the four Lewis sisters who had attended Hogwarts, I was widely regarded as the one who set the example, which I suppose is unusual for the youngest child. "Wise for her age" was a phrase that was used with regularity in my teachers' letters home to my parents.

In reality, I was merely good at keeping my flights of fancy hidden. Perhaps it was a measure of self-preservation; after all, I had seen how my parents had reacted when my eldest sister, Alice, shut herself in her room for a week when Quidditch heartthrob Ramses Llewellyn announced his engagement to a French  _Witch Weekly_ model. I had been at the uncomfortable Christmas dinner when Bianca announced her intention to run off to Scotland with a man she had met three weeks prior. And of course, I had been to countless family dinners with Ophelia and her parade of unsuitable boyfriends.

The lesson I learned from my sisters was this: the less said about romance, the better. And so I took on the mien of a very serious student, which seemed to please everyone and bring a certain amount of relief to my parents. But I had a secret: as devoted as I was to my studies, I spent an equal amount of time analyzing whether a smile from a boy was just a smile or  _more_  than a smile. In reality, I was perhaps as silly as my sisters, but better at concealing it.

So when I developed my crush on Aidan, I kept it to myself. I told no one—not even Bea and I tell Bea everything. Even Aidan with his Ravenclaw cleverness had no idea that his friend and sometimes study partner harbored a secret crush. I was cool and calm, but friendly; he was charming enough to leave me second guessing his smiles and reading a novel of meaning into the smallest gestures. It was maddening and dizzying; I loved and loathed it.

When the Yule Ball was announced in our sixth year, my thoughts initially went to Aidan. Perhaps this would be it: this would be the year that he confessed his secret feelings for me. I immediately dismissed this thought as impractical: in all likelihood, I would end up going by myself, or paired off with an unattached acquaintance. It would be awkward and unmemorable and I would spend the entire evening trying to catch Aidan's eye while he danced with some other girl—probably a modelesque blonde who was an amalgam of all of my deepest insecurities.

But I still had that little flicker of hope, which I suppose is why I felt so crushed when I overheard Genevieve Carmichael-Jenkins tell Rosalind Hunter that she had asked Aidan herself.

According to Genevieve they were going "as friends," so my little flicker of hope for a date to the Yule Ball turned into a flicker of hope for a dance. One dance. That was enough to cajole a confession out of him, right?

I ended up going with Bea's younger brother, Rodney, a fifth year with the collective maturity of a third year and the overall attention span of a below-average gnat. He abandoned me shortly after dinner ended, hot in pursuit of his pimply Hufflepuff best friend, who I think was called Spencer. I saw McGonagall scolding the pair of them later in the evening; Rodney had spilled what appeared to be pickled herring down the front of his dress robes and his friend had somehow acquired a fat lip. Part of me wanted to know what strange series of events had resulted in such an incident, but this was overruled by the fact that I didn't particularly want to spend any more time speaking to Rodney if I didn't have to.

I wasn't disappointed in Rodney's abandonment—it just left me free to casually be available for Aidan. We had bumped into each other just before dinner and he had smiled widely and said, "Charlotte! You look stunning!"

Stunning.  _Me_. And I had to admit that I did. I had gone with a strapless scarlet number that transformed me from the strait-laced, shirt-tucked-in, uniform-code abiding prefect into someone who might break the rules with you instead of reporting you to your head of house. I'd finished off the look with a heavy eye makeup and a lipstick as red as my dress.

"You look smashing," Bea had said. "I wouldn't be surprised if you have boys lining up to take Rodney's place by the end of dinner. Seriously, Charlotte, I don't think I've ever seen you look anything like this."

The difference was this: I was dressing like someone who wanted to be noticed.

To a certain extent, it worked: I was not short on dance partners. I caught Lee Jordan giving me the once-over, flashing a cheeky thumbs-up when he noticed that I had seen him looking. Kenneth Toweller's transfixion with my cleavage was such that I contemplated asking him whether he thought he'd lost something. And Montague—the same Montague who only ever spoke with me when I was threatening to write him up—even he asked me if I fancied a dance.

But not Aidan, my friend and sometimes study partner, and object of my longstanding crush. Not Aidan, who had told me I looked stunning (stunning!) before dinner.

Eventually, some hours in to the dancing, I understood why.

The crowd parted for a moment and I saw him and Genevieve Carmichael-Jenkins sitting at a table, laughing. My heart sank, but my stupid little flicker of hope was resolute: friends can talk, can't they?

In that moment, Aidan put his hand over Genevieve's. Her cheeks reddened, but she didn't pull away or do anything to enforce the "just friends" speech she had given to Rosalind Hunter. Instead, she smiled and leaned a little more toward Aidan, who looked as though he didn't want to be anywhere else in the world.

There was nothing to interpret or analyze about that scene. No amount of scarlet satin or red lipstick was going to turn Aidan away from Genevieve's green-eyed gaze.

"All right?" asked my dance partner, a seventh year who'd shown no interest in me until he realized that I had a figure.

"Yeah…" I swallowed and realized my mouth had gone dry. "I just need some air…excuse me…"

"I'll come with you," he offered, likely thinking that "getting some air" was a euphemism for getting some hands-on experience with my newly discovered figure.

"No!" I snapped. "Sorry…no, I just—I need a moment…alone."

I hurried away, shoving my way through the crowd, out the door, and into the garden, hoping that my snappish shutdown was enough of a deterrent that he wouldn't try to follow me.

I looked over my shoulder. He didn't.

I slowed my pace and found myself an unoccupied bench. The garden had been enchanted for the ball so that people could wander outside in their formalwear without coats and jackets. The air still had enough of a wintery bite to cool my flushed cheeks and calm my thrumming heart.

I took some deep breaths—in through my nose, hold of a count of eight, out through my mouth. Bea had taught me that trick on the train to Hogwarts during our first year, when the prospect of leaving home for a school of strangers was so overwhelming that I was already writing the owl to ask my parents to come get me. It was one of the only times Bea had ever seen me upset. As close as we are, Bea had never actually seen me cry, not even on that first awful trainride.

_I'm not going to cry now, either._

Initially, I thought I might—the nip in the air and the ache of my heart were almost enough to push me to that point. But those deep breaths calmed me enough that I could collect myself. If anything, I'm disappointed, I told myself. It was an awful lot of time to waste on someone who wasn't going to reciprocate my feelings. Now what was I supposed to do?

Focusing on the practical aspects of the situation—as though I were assessing a business model and not my own emotions—was strangely calming, albeit depressing. I wasn't going to cry, but I also wasn't sure what I was going to do next. I had thought of this night as a turning point, and when things didn't end up changing, I found myself feeling entirely lost. Over a  _boy_ , nonetheless.

This is the reason why I don't typically verbalize these thoughts. It gets a bit stupid.

I was lost in my thoughts, staring at nothing and trying not to feel anything, when someone plopped down on the bench next to me.

Fred Weasley. At least, I was pretty sure it was Fred. Fred or George, he was not exactly the person I wanted to see at the moment. I didn't really want to see anyone, to be honest, but it seemed as though I had little choice in the matter. I was not in the mood for jokes or clever conversation, and I had a mind to tell him such as soon as he opened his mouth.

But strangely enough, Fred was silent. When I stole a glance at him, I realized that he looked like he wasn't in the mood for jokes or clever conversation, either. He looked…well, he looked about as happy as I did: slouched and sour. My heart softened just a little and I reckoned I could manage some kindness.

"Can I ask your opinion?" he finally said.

I shrugged.

"Suppose you had a friend who once told you he fancied you," he said. "And suppose you weren't ready to hear that news, so you told him that you weren't ready for a relationship, but you'd let him know when you were. Then, two years later, suppose that you agree to accompany this friend to an event of some importance. Would you then, in front of this very same friend, accept a dare to snog some other bloke and then keep at it like hippogriffs in heat?"

I hadn't exactly known what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this. I cleared my throat.

"Er, well, no, that seems rather inconsiderate."

" _EXACTLY!_ " he said, raising both of his hands as though I had imparted a revelation.

I paused for a moment. "You went with Angelina, yeah?"

"Yep."

I nodded. "Well, I don't know if it makes you feel any better, but at least you got to go with someone you fancied."

His lip twitched upward. "You mean you aren't weak-in-the-knees for Rodney 'The Tosser' Pierce?"

I groaned. I had forgotten about Rodney's short-lived attempt at starting a Hogwarts radio show with his Hufflepuff sidekick. They hadn't even made it to air—McGonagall put a stop to it once she read the flyers.

"Merlin, no, a thousand times no. Rodney was a last resort. Honestly, I would've preferred to have gone with Bea, but she's got some Beauxbatons boy who's keen to show her his baguette. I never stood a chance."

Fred chuckled and his smile almost met his eyes. "What happened to your dream date, then?"

I shrugged. "I wasn't on his short list, I guess."

"Did he see you tonight?"

"Yeah, what's that have to do with it?"

Fred looked pointedly at my dress. "Lewis, with a dress like that, you're on  _everyone's_  short list."

My cheeks burned. "Thanks…I think?"

"No, I mean it suits you," he amended. "You look good. Confident. A woman in charge, or whatever they say in those magazines."

I smiled and shrugged. "Well, I guess it didn't work for him."

"Who was it?"

"It doesn't matter," I said, waving him off.

But there is nothing that is more attractive to Fred Weasley than a secret that you have no intention of telling him. His eyes lit up.

"Oh come on, Lewis, I told you about my romantic woes. It's only fair."

"That was your choice."

"You're betraying the trust of our new-forged friendship." He wagged a finger at me. "Was it Diggory? All the girls love Diggory."

I laughed. "I'm not going to tell you."

"Montague? I saw him lurching your way on the dance floor."

I feigned offense. "Really, do you think I have no standards?"

He shrugged. "Love is complicated."

I snorted. "Not  _that_ complicated."

He pressed on. "How about Smith? Potter? Weasley—anyone of us? No? Gibson? Jeffers? Cohen? Hoff? Kilbourne?"

I couldn't help it—as careful as I was, as calm and cool as I felt, I flinched when he said Aidan's name.

"It was Kilbourne, wasn't it?" There was no trace of mockery in his voice—it was oddly gentle, almost sweet. I stared at my fingernails, feeling exposed and somewhat sick.

"Hey." He clasped my hand and I chanced a glance at him. "I meant what I said about trust. I'm not going to tell anyone."

I nodded. "No, it's…I've never told anyone. Not even Bea."

"Charlotte Lewis," he said, all mirth vanished from his expression, "believe me when I say that I would die before I betray a dance partner."

I couldn't help myself: I smiled. "Thanks, Fred."

He squeezed my hand and dropped it. "Not at all."

We sat together in silence for a few minutes. The Yule Ball was still in full swing inside. I knew we probably had an hour or so left.

"So what are we going to do?" he asked suddenly.

"About what?"

"Our mutual heartbreaks, Lewis. We've bared our souls to each other, now we have to do something about it."

I shrugged. "I'm not sure there's much to be done."

"'Course there is," said Fred. "You can always do  _something_."

"Like what? What could possibly improve either one of our situations, apart from a love potion?"

"Well, there's a thought…"

"Could you honestly feel good about any relationship that originated from a love potion?"

"Depends on the sex, I s'pose." The sparkle was back in his eye, though, and I could tell he was trying to get a reaction from me.

"Ignoring that," I said and his grin turned wicked. "The sum of the situation is that there is no solution, other than moving on."

"Or…" He paused for a moment and tilted his head to the side, seemingly lost in thought.

"Or…?"

He smiled. It was the sort of smile that told me that the next thing to come out of his mouth was going to be a really, truly terrible idea.

"We try the next best thing," he said.

"And that would be…?"

"Jealousy."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Think about it, Lewis," he said with a slightly manic glint in his eyes. "People desperately want what they cannot have. It's nature. The surest way to make something desirable is to make it unavailable."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"You make yourself unavailable to Kilbourne and I make myself unavailable to Angelina and suddenly, they can't resist us."

"You're not serious."

"Serious as Spattergroit."

"Even if that plan worked—which I doubt it will—you're missing a key detail in that neither one of us has any prospects."

"That's where the genius part of this plan comes in."

"Oh, there's a genius part of this plan?"

"Cheeky." He swatted at me. "You've contributed nothing to this brilliance, Lewis, but I'm going to share my plan with you anyway, out of the mountainous respect I have for our budding friendship."

A smile tugged at my lips. "I'm honored."

He paused for effect and lowered his voice to a whisper. "The genius part of this plan is that the relationship that has made the two of us unavailable will be a ruse."

He was clearly expecting some sort of reaction from me.

"Wait…so your brilliant plan to woo Angelina is to trick some other girl into being your fake girlfriend so that Angelina will fall in love with you? Are you mad? Who on earth would agree to that?"

"Perhaps another like-minded individual who is struggling with a similar problem of her own." He looked meaningfully at me.

"Wait…you're not—"

"I am."

"You can't be serious."

"Deadly."

"Fred Weasley, you're asking  _me_  to be your fake girlfriend."

"Spot on."

I paused a moment to try and collect my thoughts. "You realize that this is never going to work?"

"Well, not with that attitude," he said, quirking an eyebrow.

"I mean…it's insane. Completely insane."

He shrugged. "Could be. But what other options have we got?"

I hesitated.

"I mean, worst case scenario: it doesn't work," continued Fred. "So what? So we have a fake breakup to end our fake relationship. No harm done."

He was crazy. His plan was crazy. And yet, I hesitated. Why? I really can't say. Maybe it was the thought of just sitting back and doing nothing. Maybe it was the memory of Genevieve's pink cheeks and Aidan's hand over hers. Maybe it was the way Fred's eyes glinted in the half-dark of the garden, hinting at possibility and promising me something I didn't quite understand. Maybe it was all of that. Maybe it was fate.

"What's your plan?" I said finally.

Fred grinned and glanced at his watch. "Come back to the ballroom when the next fast song starts and I'll show you."

"Can you give me more information?" I asked as he stood.

"Now where's the fun in that?"

"But where should I—"

"I'll find you."

My stomach flip-flopped as I watched him go back into the ballroom. I had no idea what I had agreed to and I was fairly certain that this was going to turn into a spectacular disaster.

But at the same time, I was also certain that I was tired of being careful.

And so, when the tempo picked up, I rose from my bench and made my way back to the ballroom. I opened the door and let the noise and the heat wash over me, blocking out my misgivings and the sound of my pounding heart. I made my way back toward the dance floor. Fred had said he'd find me, and venturing into the thick of the noise and the heat seemed like the best way to make that happen. I spotted Bea in the crowd, dancing energetically alongside her Beauxbatons date. I made my way toward her.

"Where have you been?" she shouted over the music.

"Needed some air."

She nodded. "Where's Rodney?"

I shrugged and she rolled her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Charlotte, he promised me he wasn't going to be a git."

"S'all right, he's—"

I was interrupted by a pair of hands grabbing my shoulders and spinning me around. It was Fred, looking flushed and out of breath, as though he'd been dancing for the last twenty minutes instead of sharing secrets and hatching plots in the garden with me.

"Charlotte Lewis!" he shouted. "Don't tell me you are going to let this ball end without doing me the honor of a dance!"

I laughed. "Really, Weasley? That's the line you're going for?"

He grinned and pulled me into a wicked quick-step without waiting for an answer. I laughed as I tried to keep up, spinning around the other dancers and trying not to think of the precarious height of my heels. At the very end of the song, he swung me into a low dip and again my stomach dropped to the floor and my breath  _whooshed_  out of me. But this time, his face seemed a little closer to mine and he was holding me a little longer than was strictly necessary.

We were both out of breath and laughing and neither one of us knew that we were playing with fire.


	2. Oranges in the Air

Fred Weasley's fake courtship of me began in the Great Hall at half past noon on Boxing Day. And because it was Fred Weasley, it began not with flowers and poetry, but with a wink and an airborne orange.

"All right, Lewis?"

I looked up just in time to catch the orange before it landed in Bea's beef stew.

"What was that for?"

"Boxing Day. It's a gift." He winked and continued on his way with George and Lee.

"What was that about?" asked Bea as soon as he was out of earshot.

I shrugged and started peeling the orange. "Does anyone ever know with that lot?"

This part was easy for me to play: I had no idea what Fred was doing because he refused to tell me anything useful. He had been reluctant to even agree to anything as sensible as a timetable.

"A Weasley does not  _romance_  a woman on a timetable, Lewis," he'd said during a slow song the previous evening.

"It's a fake romance, Weasley," I'd pointed out.

"Ah, but it has to be believable, doesn't it?" He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"It's believable enough with a timetable."

"You can't  _schedule_  passion!"

After some more back and forth, we finally agreed on a compromise: we'd commence a casual flirtation that would culminate in a date and the start of our fake relationship on the next Hogsmeade weekend. The when and where of the flirtation was up to Fred to improvise. It would be more convincing, he argued, if he had the element of surprise. I reluctantly agreed that this was likely true, realizing only later that I had given Fred Weasley permission to surprise me. This seemed about as prudent as leaving a tea set in the care of a giant.

But then again, this plan wasn't exactly brilliant from the start.

Airborne orange aside, the first week of the plan was relatively uneventful. A friendly comment here and there, a joke or two at my expense—nothing particularly special that warranted any commentary or speculation.

The first day of term was a different matter, though.

When Transfiguration began on Monday morning, it was immediately clear that Fred and George were in rare form. In the first half hour of class, McGonagall had gone from the stern look and sharp "A _hem_ " to "Mr. Weasley,  _that will be enough._ " Based on historical evidence, detention was likely to follow. And as always, this only seemed to embolden the twins.

"Sorry, Professor—first day of term and all," said Fred.

"We're very excited," added George.

McGonagall looked as though she believed nothing of the sort.

"Be as that may, Mr. Weasley," she said, "you must conduct yourself appropriately in my class or you will be spending your first week of term in detention."

"It's all George, Professor," said Fred. "He's a terrible influence. I would've made prefect if it hadn't been for him."

George delivered a good-natured punch to his shoulder. "Sod off."

"See?" said Fred. "Violent _and_ profane."

"It would serve you well, Mr. Weasley, to learn a thing or two from our prefects," said McGonagall.

"Like I said, he's a corrupting influence," said Fred.

" _Mr. Weasley_."

This was the tipping point—this was the line that Fred and George rarely chose to cross, despite their penchant for trouble. The silence hung heavily in the classroom as McGonagall stared at them both, almost daring them to take one step further.

"As I said, Mr. Weasley," said McGonagall after an unbearably long moment of silence, "it would behoove you to follow the example set by our prefects."

There was an odd glint in McGonagall's eye. I felt a little nervous, but I didn't know why.

"Fortunately, a new term is a time for new beginnings."

And suddenly, I knew exactly what was going to happen.

"I think it is time that we reconsider our seating arrangements. You, Mr. Weasley," she said, gesturing to Fred, "will be joining Miss Lewis. Miss Pierce, if you would kindly take his place…"

Bea stole one wide-eyed glance at me as she began gathering her things. We had been partners in every class since first year. The week that she had been out of class recovering from appendicitis had felt like a week without a limb. We divided note-taking responsibilities based on our strengths—I had an eye for detail, Bea had a knack for big and broad concepts. If one of us was ill or tired, the other would pick up the slack. We had devised a discreet and entirely foolproof system for passing notes. We were a sensational team.

Fred and George were a sensational team as well, I suppose, but not in the sort of way that was conducive to a good learning environment.

Bea rose from her seat and took her place next to George. Fred settled in next to me and made a good show of looking disappointed, but the twinkle in his eye told me otherwise. I waited until McGonagall had us start on the practical part of the lesson to ask the question that was burning in my mind.

"How on earth did you manage this?"

He shrugged. "Calculated risk based on previous behavior. What I'm really hoping for is a chain reaction."

"What do you mean?"

He grinned and turned back to his work. "You'll see."

I understood soon enough. Although it was clear the twins preferred each other's company to Bea and me, no one could deny that on the whole, Fred and George were much more well-behaved when they were forced to sit apart. Though she tried to hide it, McGonagall looked as though she had discovered something on par with a non-magically based solution to world peace.

"I hope you understand that it is not my intention to punish either one of you," she said to Bea and me after class. "The circumstances of this arrangement speak very highly to the level of trust I have in both of you, although I imagine that may not be much comfort."

"No, Professor, I understand," I said.

"It's classroom management," said Bea. "No harm done."

By the end of the week, the new seating arrangement had been replicated in all of my classes—even in Charms where Fred and George's misbehavior was met with the most patience and even in Defense Against the Dark Arts, where Fred and George were generally the best behaved. Without fail, each teacher asked Bea and me to stay after class to assure us that this was not a punishment. Even Snape made an effort.

"I expect that you will hold yourselves to a high standard of behavior in my class, despite your new…associates," he said.

"Yes, of course, Professor," I said.

"And I expect a similar level of excellence in your work."

"Absolutely."

He stared at us for a moment. "Thank you. You may go."

But Flitwick was the most honest.

"Honestly, we should have thought of this  _years_  ago," he said cheerily.

For their part, Fred and George seemed to be making an effort. The mischief and misbehavior that could not be repressed was easily subdued with a sharp elbow to the ribs or a well-placed kick. Bea had taken it upon herself to deliver a set of expectations to George through a stern lecture that included the phrase "I will hex you six ways to Sunday" and several other variants. George took this all in stride and in fact seemed amused by the prospect of being annihilated by a sixteen-year-old more petite than a house-elf.

Of course, Fred and I had no expectations to discuss. He knew what I expected of him and I knew that he was not going to tell me what to expect from him. It seemed, however, that airborne oranges were a dead certainty.

"All right, Lewis?"

This time the orange nearly landed in my lap before I caught it.

"It's not Boxing Day!" I said.

He shrugged and grinned as he strolled away. "Doesn't have to be Boxing Day for a gift."

"Is this a weekly occurrence now?" asked Bea as I started peeling the orange.

"You probably know as much as I do."

"He seems a bit keen on you."

I snorted. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, the oranges," she said, helping herself to a section of the fruit. "I seem to remember that he kept you rather busy at the Yule Ball. And you're spending quite a lot of time together now that you are his warden."

I popped a piece of the orange into my mouth. "Come off it, it was only a couple of dances. He went with Angelina."

"Yes, and you went with Rodney."

"Fair point." I peeled another section off the orange. "I think he thinks I'm funny, you know? I'm the straight man in his comedic routine: very serious, rule following, no nonsense."

"Merlin, 'The Prankster and the Prefect.' Forced to sit together in class: love blossoms! It's practically poetic."

"It  _would_  be, but I don't think that's in the cards."

She sipped at her coffee and leaned toward me conspiratorially. " _I_  think he's keen to hop on board the Lewis train."

I rolled my eyes. "The Lewis train? Really?"

"Be nice, the coffee hasn't started working yet."

I seized the opportunity. Bea had stayed out late with her Beauxbatons date the night before. "Late night? How was your diplomatic exploration of foreign territories, Ambassador Pierce?"

"I know you're trying to change the subject but—" She leaned forward and continued in a low voice. "—the diplomatic team was pleased by the nation's offerings, although our visit was curtailed by international sanctions."

"So McGonagall caught you snogging in broom closet," I translated.

"She  _almost_  caught us snogging and conducting some above-the-waist exploration in an empty classroom. Luckily, I have excellent hearing and have perfected the speedy and silent getaway." She raised her mug in a mock toast.

"So you're going to see him again?"

"Probably. But now I'm changing the subject back to you."

"Why? There's nothing to discuss."

"Oh, just the likelihood of Fred Weasley buying a ticket for the Lewis Express to Love City, population: you."

"Again with the trains!"

"The acceptability of my use of metaphor is not up for discussion at this time. The subject of your personal life is, however." She rested her chin on her hands and batted her eyelashes.

"There's nothing to tell," I protested, laughing. "He's just being Fred—there's no hidden agenda there."

"Well, why not? He's not bad looking, you know."

She wasn't wrong—Fred wasn't all that bad to look at. He'd grown up and filled out over the last couple of years, a far cry from the round-faced eleven-year-old who'd started school with me. Like most of the boys, he'd let his hair grow longish and shaggy this year—a look I wasn't particularly fond of—but it suited him. He had an excellent smile, a feature made all the more obvious by the fact that he was almost always laughing.

He was no Aidan Kilbourne, though.

"I don't dispute that," I said. "I just think that you're reading a little too much into this."

"Well," said Bea, crossing her arms over her chest, "we'll see about that."

I didn't feel guilty about lying to Bea. Well, I suppose "lying" isn't really the right word—it's not as though she asked me if I was planning a fake relationship with Fred Weasley in order to start a real relationship with Aidan Kilbourne and I had said no, of course not, that would be silly. I had just never told her that I had made that agreement in the first place. I was omitting rather than outright lying—same as I had done with Aidan. And in reality, wasn't this just an extension of that secret? I couldn't tell her about this without telling her about Aidan, so I might as well keep quiet and keep my head down for now and we'll laugh about this silly thing years later.

Like I said, I didn't feel guilty. Mostly.

If I was doomed for keeping secrets, at least I wasn't alone: Fred wasn't telling George, either. Initially, I made him promise to keep his mouth shut out of fairness—if I couldn't tell Bea, it was only reasonable that Fred couldn't tell his closest confidant either. Fred agreed, but only because he felt this would make our fake relationship seem more authentic.

"Have you ever kept a secret from him before?" I asked. This was at the Yule Ball, during the same slow song where we had plotted out our non-timeline of our fake romance.

He thought for a moment. "Here and there as the situation has required it, but not usually."

"What sort of situation would require secrecy?"

"Oh, the occasional joke." He grinned. "We're a team, but I like to throw a little treachery in every so often. Keeps him on his toes."

"Well, this is a little different than a joke. Is it going to be difficult for you?"

"It's not a joke, but we're still fooling them." His eyes—they were maple brown, I noticed—were oddly serious.

"I suppose so."

He smiled suddenly, the twinkle returning to his eyes. "It will make for a brilliant story when it's over—he'll love it."

 _If it works_.

* * *

 

The second phase of Fred's courtship began the following Monday before Transfiguration with a request for help with homework.

"Very funny," I said when he asked.

"I'm serious."

"I find it difficult to believe that you are serious, much less about schoolwork," I said, taking out my notes and textbook.

"Come off it, Charlotte, it's hard enough to ask for help as is." His eyes had lost some of their usual mirth. Maybe he was serious.

"Right—sorry. I just wasn't—it doesn't matter. Yes, of course I'll help."

"Brilliant." He smiled. "Meet me in the common room after dinner?"

"Sure."

The requested help was for a Potions essay on Golpalott's Third Law. To be honest, I wasn't sure how Fred was still in Potions—rumor had it that he and George had received a combined total of six O. W. L.s and I suspected that neither had received the necessary "Outstanding" to continue on in Snape's class. However, I also suspected that school administrators thought that perhaps three classes was not quite enough to fully occupy the minds and attention of two of Hogwarts' most notorious troublemakers. As it had been explained to me several times during the previous week, sometimes sacrifices had to be made for the greater good and so Potions stayed on the schedule.

Snape, I wager, looked on this more as a punishment.

Fred had picked an assignment that was particularly conducive to staging romance: bent over a shared parchment and textbook, there wasn't much in the way of personal space.

"You know, you're not half bad with the practical part of class," I said as I looked over his essay. We had taken over a table in the common room. He was resting his chin in one hand and leaning on the table, idly playing with a quill. "Your grasp of theory is rubbish, though."

"You know how to let a bloke down gently, Lewis," he said.

"You asked me to help, not to coddle you." I frowned at the parchment and crossed out a particularly problematic sentence.

"I thought that coddling was implied." He nudged me with his elbow. "Can you really resist a face like this?"

"Quite easily when you're this wrong," I said, crossing out another sentence.

"You wound me, my lady."

"You'll thank me later."

I helped Fred stumble through his essay for the rest of that week. He would meet me in the common room after dinner—the busiest time of day, ensuring that we would be seen—and we'd spend about an hour working together. I learned a lot about Fred in those one-hour sessions. He always smelled of citrus and sandalwood. He had a habit of tapping his fingers on the table when he was thinking. He was an excellent speller, but routinely added an extra 'm' to "tomorrow." He was smarter than he led most people to believe. He had a tiny mole just underneath his left ear.

I suppose that Fred must have learned something about me in those one-hour sessions. Probably that I chew on my thumbnail when I'm thinking or that my laugh resembles more of a high-pitched bark when I find something particularly funny. Maybe he didn't notice anything at all—he wasn't exactly the sort who seemed to spend much time in reflection. Occasionally, his knee would accidentally bump mine or he'd knock his hand against mine while reaching for a quill. In those moments, he'd look at me as though we were sharing a secret and we'd both start laughing.

To an observer, it might have looked as though we were flirting. The truth, of course, was far funnier and more complex. We laughed because we were the only ones who were in on the joke; we were the clever ones who had fooled everyone else.

At least, that's what we thought.


	3. The Corridor

The first tipping point came almost three weeks after the Yule Ball. It was the sort of point where the sensible part of my brain ought to have stepped in and said, "Now, really _,_ this is _not_  a good idea." It was the sort of point that would cause an observer to cluck disapprovingly and say, "She ought to have known better." But the sensible part of my brain was oddly silent and clever as I was, I didn't know better.

Not yet, anyway.

I had taken great pains to avoid both Aidan and Genevieve since the Yule Ball. I didn't really want to think about them being together as a reality, even though I had agreed to embark on a very hare-brained and ill-advised scheme in direct response to that specific reality. Better to ignore it than think about it too much—it was safer for me that way. And so I ducked around corners to avoid Genevieve and gave up making up excuses to talk to Aidan. I distracted myself with new problems and worries. And for a time, it worked.

And then one day, it didn't.

My prefect rounds included a specific corridor not too far from the Charms classroom. It was particularly out-of-the-way and very poorly lit, which made it very attractive to both couples and mischief-makers. This corridor had become my responsibility because I had absolutely no reservations about camping out on one of the benches with a book. No amount of cuddling or canoodling could embarrass or dissuade me. My presence was typically enough to discourage troublemakers and ensure that the couples kept their hands mostly visible. Last year, I had caught my sister Bianca and her boyfriend Hector Culpeper so many times that Hector had taken to calling me Cold Shower Charlotte. Bianca suggested that he rethink that nickname; when he didn't, she ended their relationship the following day by enlisting a Ravenclaw Chaser to fly a twenty-foot breakup banner round the Quidditch pitch before the Ravenclaw-Slytherin match.

"How exactly did you manage this?" I asked.

Bianca gave a scary sort of laugh. "Oh, I have some connections."

There are times when I am certain that it is only fear of my mum's disapproval that keeps Bianca from turning to a life of crime. I can't deny the efficacy of her methods, though: the unfortunate nickname didn't stick, even though I was still patrolling the same corridor during my sixth year.

It was a Thursday in the third week following the Yule Ball and the corridor was more occupied than usual. Rodney and his Hufflepuff friend—Spencer? Stanley? Must ask Bea—were sniggering over what looked to be a tawdry magazine, which quickly disappeared as soon as they caught sight of me. They attempted to casually stroll away, an effort that was undermined by the fact that Rodney tripped over an untied shoelace. There were the usual couples—the pair of fifth years who were always in the middle of a whispered argument, the fourth years who only ever held hands, Nadia Minkowski and Otis Warren, Rochelle DeLaurentis and Oliver Esposito, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students who I didn't recognize…

And Aidan and Genevieve.

Years of pretending that Aidan was no more than a friend and sometimes study partner had prepared me for this—my expression betrayed nothing. I was nonchalant, almost bored, a semi-authority figure who did not particularly want to be here and had other, more important things on her mind. You couldn't tell from looking at me that my stomach had dropped straight through the center of the earth. You couldn't tell that my heart was pounding hard against my ribs and not with the giddy thrill of a glance sent my way—Aidan only had eyes for Genevieve.

I sat down on my bench and pulled out my Transfiguration textbook. I would not look at Genevieve and Aidan, even though I could see them well enough from my place on the bench. I would stare at my textbook and turn the page every so often, even though I couldn't focus quite well enough to make actual sense of what I was reading.

I knew I was being stupid—it's not like this was a surprise to me—but the fact that they had gone down to this very corridor to cuddle and canoodle lent a particular weight to their relationship. It was no longer an idea or theory that was swept easily out of sight: it was real and undeniable.

It also seemed a little—a lot—pathetic that I wasn't in this corridor because I was pursuing romantic trysts of my own. I was in this corridor because I was supposed to be a third wheel. Cold Shower Charlotte, spinster prefect, chaperone of couples. All I needed was twenty-two cats and a permanent scowl.

I don't really know how long I sat there pretending to read my textbook, but an interruption eventually arrived in the form of Fred Weasley. It was as though he had a particular talent for finding me when I was sitting on a bench and wallowing about the state of my romantic prospects. And like last time, I wasn't in the mood for jokes or clever conversation.

"What're you doing here?" I asked as he sat down next to me, not taking my eyes off of my textbook.

"Can't a bloke visit his favorite prefect for no particular reason?"

"You always have a reason, Weasley. Or a motive, more like."

"One of these days you're going to make me cry, Lewis, and then you'll be sorry."

"Doubt it. How did you find me, anyway?"

"Memorized your rounds, of course."

I ventured a glance up from my textbook. He was grinning.

"I'll let you in on a secret, Lewis." He leaned toward me. "A large part of my success can be attributed to general awareness of what areas are unsupervised."

"You're a genius," I said, turning back to my textbook.

"This corridor's for amateurs anyway." He swiped the textbook from my hands.

"Hey!"

"I'm imparting pearls of wisdom and you're ignoring me for this rubbish." He squinted at the text on the page before shutting the book with a snap. "I have half a mind to be offended."

I sighed heavily. "What do you want, Weasley?"

He frowned. "What's got into you?"

"Nothing. It's been a long day."

"I don't believe you."

I shrugged. "Then don't. It doesn't bother me."

Maybe I flinched. Maybe my eyes flickered just for a second toward Genevieve and Aidan. Maybe he just guessed. Whatever it was, Fred glanced down the corridor and suddenly understood.

"Ah. Long day indeed."

"It's nothing," I said quickly.

"Nothing?"

"I mean—it's not like it was a surprise…"

"Sure."

"It's just—"

I struggled for the right word. Fred tilted his head thoughtfully and I suddenly remembered that he understood. I had forgotten why we had made this bargain in the first place: because we had both been hurt, to a certain extent. Fred perhaps more dramatically than me—he had actually confessed his feelings to Angelina. I hadn't been nearly that brave.

"…you know how it is," I said finally.

"Yeah."

We sat in silence for a few moments.

"So what are you going to do about it?" he asked. His eyes glinted in a way that made me think he already knew the answer.

"Why are you always asking me this question?"

"You're an enigma, Charlotte Lewis," he said, making a grand, sweeping gesture with his hand. "How can I not be curious about the inner workings of the greatest mind of our generation?"

"Now you're just being cheeky."

"I wouldn't dream of it." He was smiling. "I ask because someone has to give you a push."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I've seen how you operate. Most of the time, you're self-assured—you run all the facts through that cunning brain of yours and choose the smartest path for the smartest solution and you don't look back because you don't need to." He paused. "But sometimes, you freeze. You balance on a precipice between thought and action until someone gives you a push." He bumped his shoulder lightly against mine.

"And you're basing this analysis on the single conversation we had at the Ball?" I didn't want to admit he was right. Not just because he becomes insufferable when he's right, but because admitting he was right meant being more vulnerable than I wanted to be at that moment.

Fred's eyes glinted. He knew this. Of course. The git.

"I won't reveal my secrets," he said. He bumped my shoulder again. "So…what are you going to do about it?"

I didn't want to answer this question. Answering meant admitting more powerlessness, another vulnerability.

"Nothing," I said after a moment.

"Nothing?"

I shrugged. "There's not much I can do. So much for that precipice, eh?"

"You are grossly underestimating your options, Lewis."

"And  _you_  are grossly _over_ estimating the power that I wield over the universe."

" _I_  think you are forgetting about the bargain we made."

There was a heavy pause, as though he had delivered a punch line and was waiting for me to react. My heart drummed against my ribs and I swallowed.

"What do you mean by that?"

He grinned. "Come off it, Lewis, you're  _hardly_  that thick."

And he leaned in and kissed me.

I admit that prior to this point, I had not given much thought as to what it would mean to be Fred Weasley's fake girlfriend. In the back of my head, I assumed that there would be some public displays of affection and that such displays would probably include some kissing. But I hadn't really thought about what kissing Fred might be like—it seemed like the sort of thing that would be better to worry about when it was happening.

Well, it was happening.

I hadn't kissed many boys at that point, but I'd kissed enough to know that Fred was good. There was an unexpected sweetness and gentleness to his motions—he was soft and careful, tracing my lower lip with his tongue, coaxing me to kiss him back. Tentatively, I did.

He tasted like oranges.

His hand came to rest on my neck, thumb grazing my pounding pulse. I was fairly confident that he knew that I was blushing to the roots of my hair and that my stomach was simultaneously attempting to drop through the center of the earth and launch itself into space. Maybe he knew that I was thinking of Aidan and Genevieve while also trying to ignore them; maybe he was thinking of and trying not to think of Angelina. I tried to push that from my mind. I leaned into the kiss and tried to lose myself in the heat of our mouths, lips, and tongues.

Fred was the one to pull back after a moment. He looked at me, our noses almost touching.

"You've been reading more than just your textbooks, Lewis," he said quietly, quirking an eyebrow at me.

My blush crept from the roots of my hair into my skull. Fred's smile grew wider.

"You're enjoying this far too much."

"Of course I am." He was unrepentant. "I'm going to kiss you again. Give it about a minute and then run off."

"Why?"

"Dramatic exit." He was leaning toward me, shrinking the already small gap between us. "It'll turn some heads."

Although I was more prepared for this kiss, my heart was still pounding wildly and my cheeks were still burning. That same gentleness was still there—though he was clearly amused by my nervousness, that didn't mean he didn't care or didn't understand. He kissed me with care, almost like a question, and he followed my tentative, stumbling lead.

And so it almost felt a little cruel to suddenly pull away from him about a minute later and flee the scene with a mumbled "sorry." He called after me as I bolted down the corridor, but I pretended not to hear him and I pretended not to notice the heads that were turning as I sprinted down the corridor.

I ran until I had a stitch in my side and until there were several corridors and a few flights of stairs between Fred and me. I came to a stop, panting and laughing.

"Good gracious, child!" exclaimed a portrait of a severe looking woman clutching a sour-looking spaniel. "Are you ill? Why are you laughing?"

I didn't really know the answer to that question and that made me laugh even harder.

* * *

 My prefect rounds now went something a little like this: I would begin to make my way to my usual bench only to be waylaid by Fred, who would snake an arm around my waist and pull me to the nearest alcove or bench for what appeared to be clandestine snogging.

What the observer didn't realize was that these were carefully planned and cleverly orchestrated. As he pulled me toward the nearest alcove or bench, Fred would press his lips against my ear and murmur a time limit. It was up to me to keep track of the time and stage my exit.

Despite what my initial nervousness might suggest, this proved to be excellent stress relief. It was nice to be held and kissed, even if it was all a ruse. If I was prone to particularly strong flights of fancy, I could have easily pretended that it was Aidan I was kissing and not Fred. I didn't, though, mostly because that seemed like a dangerous line to tread—although, as I've said before, it's not like this entire plan was brilliant from the start.

On the fourth day, I saw Angelina secluded in an alcove with Lee Jordan. This was the first day that Fred did not whisper a time limit in my ear. He didn't say much of anything, but there was an urgency and fierceness in kiss that wasn't there before. For the first time, I understood the full nature of his heartbreak, or whatever you want to call it. Lee was one of his friends. Even if Fred hadn't confessed the full nature of his feelings for Angelina to Lee, the pain of being betrayed—even inadvertently—by a friend didn't exactly make the situation any easier. In fact, it was the sort of thing that might make a person think that a particular ill-advised scheme might just be worth it.

Initially, it was difficult to say whether our plan was working. I had heard no rumors other than Bea's train-based soliloquy, which I was reluctant to acknowledge as anything other than Bea's overactive imagination. By the third day, I was beginning to worry that I was embarrassing myself for no reason, not to mention the fact that in doing so, I had been leaving the corridor unsupervised. But finally—finally—on the fifth day, the Hogwarts rumor mill began to creak its way into action.

"Heard a funny thing from Rochelle DiLaurentis," said Bea at lunch. Her eyebrow had a slight twitch, which usually means that she has a secret.

"Out with it, Bea."

" _She_  said—" Bea paused here to take a wholly unnecessary sip of her tea. "—that she'd seen you and Fred Weasley snogging in that corridor by the Charms classroom not once, not twice, but  _three_  times this week."

It had actually been four times, but I wasn't going to correct her. I knew what I had to do here: laugh, deny, deflect.

" _Three_  times? It's a miracle that I have time to study."

"Now normally I'd be inclined to dismiss such a claim," said Bea, going on as though she hadn't heard me, "but I  _have_  noticed that you have become rather…acquainted with the gentleman in question and I think that he has certainly expressed an interest in purchasing a ticket for a certain locomotive wonder—"

"You are not going to give up on this train thing, are you?"

"I will turn this train metaphor into an epic oral history that my descendants will tell for generations because I will include it as a specific condition of their inheritance. That is how much I believe in this metaphor."

I rolled my eyes. "You have the soul of a poet, truly. But I'm sorry to say that unless Rochelle thinks Fred is my Transfiguration textbook, I haven't been spending time with anyone in that corridor."

Bea pressed her palms together and stared at me thoughtfully. "Can I  _really_  trust the word of someone who has no appreciation for the art of the metaphor?"

"Really, Bea: would I lie about something like this? When have I ever lied to you?"

It was difficult to say that without feeling guilty. There was no getting around it: I was lying. Not tiptoeing around or omitting the truth, not paraphrasing or reframing, but straightforward, old fashioned lying. The fact that Bea didn't look as though she fully believed me didn't make it any easier to bear. Luckily for my conscience, she soon found out that the rumor about my extracurricular activities with Fred Weasley was less of a rumor and more of a fact.

Bea had her fair share of boyfriends while we were at Hogwarts, but she was not a frequent patron of the corridor by the Charms classroom. Like Fred, she was of the opinion that this corridor was for amateurs and also like Fred, she knew when I was likely to be there and was able to adjust her schedule accordingly. Had I thought that there was any chance that she might turn up during one of my calculated snog fests with Fred, maybe I would have been a little more honest with her when she asked about it.

Maybe.

It was the sixth day of our clandestine kissing, the second day without a time limit. We were in a partly secluded alcove and I had just lost myself in a delightful place where the only thing that mattered was the physical feeling of being kissed. I wasn't thinking of anything—not Aidan, not Fred, not schoolwork, not the responsibilities I was ignoring, not the secrets or the lies. I was simply enjoying the feeling of his lips on mine and my hands tangled in his hair without worrying about what anything meant.

"You  _minx_!"

My eyes flew open and Fred broke the kiss, turning toward the source of the noise.

It was Bea. And her Beauxbatons date. Of course.

"I cannot  _believe_ —" Bea looked as though she was torn between strangling me for lying and cackling triumphantly because I had proven her right. Righteous but resigned anger eventually won the day. "You and I are going to have a chat.  _Later_. And  _you will tell me everything_."

I nodded.

"And  _you_ ," she said, wheeling on Fred and stabbing a forefinger into his chest. "I expect you to make an honest woman out of her."

"Don't you think we're a bit young for marriage?" asked Fred. "Next year, sure, but now? We're practically babies."

"Don't be pert, you know what I mean." She jabbed her forefinger into his chest with every syllable. "None of this 'sneaking-about-to-snog-but-can't-be-bothered-to-take-her-on-a-date' rot. She's too good for that. You will act like a gentleman and you will take her on a  _proper_  date."

"I wouldn't dream of anything less."

Say what you want about Fred: he can be disarmingly sincere when he wants to be. Bea's eyes softened just a little and her expression became a touch less murderous. But only a touch.

"Good." She gave his chest a final jab for emphasis. She looked back at me with an expression that seemed to suggest that we would talk later or I would risk losing several important limbs. She finally grabbed her befuddled Beauxbatons date by the hand and stalked off down the corridor.

We only dared to smile when her footsteps had faded completely.


	4. Hogsmeade

Bea's dad sometimes jokes that it is no accident that her name is only one letter away from a very angry insect. This annoys Bea, which only serves to prove her dad's point, annoying her even further and entertaining the rest of us. Bea can be incredibly funny when she is angry. She looks deceptively sweet—she's barely over five feet tall and she has the sort of heart-shaped face that always seems to be on the verge of a smile. She does not look like the sort of person who would approach an argument with the single-minded persistence of a Welsh terrier. Even though we've been best friends since we were eleven, it's surprising how easily I forget this.

She was already staring at me when I walked into the common room that evening, as she had situated herself in one of the armchairs by the fire that allowed her an uninterrupted view of the portrait hole. There would be no sneaking upstairs to the dormitory, not if I didn't want to make things worse. I rehearsed my argument as I made my way toward her:  _I didn't mean to lie, it just happened, I'm not good at talking about these things…_

"How long have you been staring like that?" I asked as I sat down in the chair opposite her.

"Charlotte Victoria Lewis  _do not_  try to change the subject."

"I can't very well change the subject if we haven't even started the conversation yet," I protested.

"Don't try to argue semantics with me either," she said, eyes glinting dangerously. "You know  _exactly_  why we are here and you have some serious explaining to do."

"Look, I know you aren't happy with me—"

Bea snorted.

"—and I understand why. I know I lied to you and I'm sorry. I didn't mean for things to turn out like this. Really."

Was that another lie? I wasn't sure.

"I didn't  _like_  keeping this a secret. This whole thing just sort of…happened and I didn't really know what to make of it, so I didn't talk about it."

"That is why  _I'm_  here, you idiot!" exclaimed Bea, throwing her arms up in a plea to the heavens. I was encouraged by the fact that she called me an idiot—Bea didn't like idiocy, but she tended to see it as a temporary and sometimes excusable condition. She was much less forgiving about traits she perceived to be inherent. "Bloody hell, Charlotte, if you'd just  _told_  me, I would've helped you work it out."

"I know, I _know_ —"

"Then why didn't you—?"

"Because it's not that simple, Bea."

"Of course it's simple—"

"Maybe for you it is, but—" I was starting to feel flustered as we edged closer to the truth. "I mean—how often have you heard me talk about a boy? Not bloody often."

"Not for lack of trying," she retorted. "I've said it before and I'll say it again: you do not devote nearly enough time to being young and stupid."

This was an ongoing battle between the two of us. Bea felt that I needed to devote more time to having fun, which she defined as having an occasional fling or even an exclusive relationship. Since I was already harboring a secret crush that I had no intention of revealing, I took the position that I could be young and stupid over the summer holidays, but I was much too busy during the school year. Bea felt that I was missing the point. She may have been right.

Of course, I couldn't tell her half of this. I took a deep breath.

"Look—it's just…I've…I've always felt really… _weird_  and vulnerable about that sort of thing."

"I've got that, but  _why_?"

We were at the truth—or, at least a part of the truth.

"I don't want to be like my sisters," I said after a moment. "They are lovely, wonderful girls but the moment that a boy gets involved, they turn into idiots. I never wanted to be like that so I just…I just avoided that possibility entirely."

I was surprised to find a lump in my throat—had it really bothered me to keep this from Bea?

Bea sighed, but not unkindly. "Merlin's tit, Charlotte. You are without a doubt the smartest witch I know, but sometimes you are remarkably thick."

Now it was my turn to be angry. "I'm baring my bloody  _soul_  here, Bea—"

"No, I didn't mean—" She paused for a moment, seeming to struggle with her words. "You're not just smart, Charlotte: you're sensible and you have good judgment. Those are not qualities that go away because you have a boyfriend, not if they're genuine. You have nothing to worry about."

My heart suddenly felt much lighter than it had since this whole thing had started. "Thanks, Bea," I said quietly.

"You're quite welcome, but next time just talk to me, please?"

"I will. I really am sorry."

"I know." There was a hint of a smile—a real one—around the corners of her mouth. "And now that you have bared your soul and various neuroses, I understand your reluctance to share recent developments in your romantic life. I accept the apology sonnet that you are no doubt going to compose for me by the end of this conversation."

"I am sorry, but I am not writing a sonnet."

"That is non-negotiable per section 7, clause 3, paragraph 8 of our Friendship Contract," said Bea, her tone matter-of-fact. "And now that we have cleared up the matter of your recent secrecy, that brings me to my second grievance: your romantic activities as of late."

"What's wrong with my romantic activities as of late?"

"Namely that I know nothing about them."

"Is there something specific that you wanted to know?"

"Oh, just a few details," said Bea airily. "Including, but not limited to: how did this happen, when did this happen, the quality of kissing and other activities, the extent of other activities, how long have you fancied him, and when is the wedding?"

"I don't know it just sort of…happened," I offered, lamely. I had not given much thought to this part of our conversation.

"Not a satisfactory answer. Try again."

"There's not really a lot to tell. We had a couple dances at the Yule Ball, he started chucking oranges at me, then we were partnered in class, he asked for help with an assignment…"

" _And_ …?"

"…and he showed up during my rounds in that corridor and we started talking and then he kissed me and it was rather nice."

"And…?"

"And what?"

Bea heaved a beleaguered sigh. "Honestly, Charlotte. For someone so detail-oriented, you are being remarkably vague."

"Well, I don't really know what else there is to tell!"

"Let's start with how long this been going on."

"Since Saturday."

" _Every day_  since Saturday?"

I felt a blush creeping up my neck. "Maybe."

Bea looked impressed. "Snogging! Six days in a row! It's like I don't even know you. So, how is it?"

"What?"

"The kissing, of course."

"I said it was rather nice, didn't I?"

"That is hardly descriptive."

My cheeks were flaming. "He's…he's quite good."

"Is it just kissing or—"

"Merlin's pants, Bea, it's hasn't even been a week, we're not even…I don't know what we are, but we're not anything yet."

"Yes, that brings me to another point," said Bea, suddenly becoming very serious. "He's got to take you on a proper date."

"I think that you were pretty clear about that in the corridor."

"I'm serious! No mucking about, that's not fair to either of you."

"What happened to being young and stupid and all your talk of flings?"

"That's different," she said. "A fling is like my Beauxbatons friend—"

"What is his name, anyway? You've never said."

She rolled her eyes. "Devereux."

"His  _first_ name?"

"Now you know why I call him my Beauxbatons friend." She sighed and shook her head. "He won't even answer to 'Dev' like a sensible person. He thinks it's common. He insists on calling me 'Beatrice' for the same reason."

"…And you  _like_  this person?"

"See, that's the point: at the end of the year, I will probably never see him again. And that's fine because other than an interest in snogging, we have very little in common. Devereux is the very definition of a fling—fun, but not for real."

"And Fred…?"

"Well, obviously, you're going to see Fred after the end of this year, so there's that. But Fred isn't a fling. He looks like a fling on the surface because he can't take anything seriously half the time, but when it comes down to it, he's not a fling. Neither is George, I suppose." She paused and smiled a little. "I think Fred could be something special if you let him. I would have never have thought to put the two of you together, but it does make a certain amount of sense."

I shifted in my seat, trying to hide my discomfort. The point of this entire exercise was not to lead Bea to conclude that Fred and I were meant to be together: the point was to ensure that we both ended up with other people.

"I don't know if we're going to have a date," I said as casually as possible. "I mean…we haven't really talked about it…"

"Yes, well, it sounds like you haven't done much talking at all…" She dodged as I aimed a kick at her shins. "I wouldn't write it off—Hogsmeade is Saturday. The timing is practically perfect."

_Practically perfect_. Oh Bea, if you only knew.

"And besides," she said, trying to suppress a smile, "I seem to recall that Hogsmeade is a stop on the Lewis Express…"

"Bea, if you say one more thing about trains, I swear I will tell Peeves about that empty classroom you and Devereux have been using to snog."

"But I was right!" she cackled. "You rejected my power of prose only to be bowled over by a train of truth!"

I let her have her moment, albeit grudgingly. After all, she was only half right about Fred and me.

"And speak of the devil," she said, nodding toward the portrait hole, where Fred and George were both clambering into the common room.

"Oi, Lewis!" called Fred, as soon has he caught sight of me.

"What is it, Weasley?"

"Are you going to Hogsmeade on Saturday?"

"Yes…"

"Want to go with me?"

"Like a  _proper date_?" interjected Bea.

Fred feigned offense as he and George flopped down in two empty armchairs. "Of course it's a proper date, I'm a gentleman, aren't I?"

"That is debatable," said Bea, "but she accepts your offer."

"What are you, my social secretary?" I asked.

"Yes," said Bea. "I'm also your wardrobe consultant  _and_ you're going to let me do your makeup. Because you owe me."

I wasn't about to argue that in front of Fred and George. Bea had me and she knew it.

"Fred, will you let me do your makeup?" asked George, batting his eyes.

"Sorry, mate, Lee asked first," said Fred. "Next time."

"'Next time?'" said Bea. "Awfully confident, aren't you?"

"Oh, I have a hunch," said Fred, looking meaningfully at me and I allowed myself a small, shy smile in return. Bea and George waggled their eyebrows at each other as though they knew something that we didn't, completely unaware that we were already in on the joke.

* * *

 Saturday morning dawned clear and cold. I know this because Bea flung open my bed hangings not very long after the sun had begun to peek over the horizon.

"'s matter?" I yawned, shielding my eyes.

"Up! Into the shower!" she said cheerily. Her unbrushed hair coupled with the manic glint in her eyes made her appear slightly unhinged.

"Too early," I mumbled.

"I know you, Charlotte Lewis," she said, yanking the covers off of my bed. "You are going to spend at least fifteen minutes sitting motionless on your bed trying to wake up, twenty minutes fiddling around in the lavatory, at  _least_  an hour in the shower, another twenty minutes fiddling around after your shower, then you'll want breakfast and you'll probably insist on reading the bloody paper—I'll barely have enough time to get you presentable."

"I'm beginning to regret agreeing to this," I grumbled as I sat up.

"Too late!" said Bea, beaming. "Now, start sitting motionless on your bed, we've got a schedule to keep."

Bea's knowledge of my morning routine was disconcerting, but accurate almost to the minute. When I finally emerged from my shower, it was nearing half past nine. I returned to the dormitory to find that had Bea dressed, showered, and emptied what looked like the entire contents of my wardrobe onto my bed.

"What have you—"

"Good, you're done." She dropped the sweater that she'd been inspecting. "Come on, we've got twenty minutes for breakfast."

"I hope you're planning on putting all of this right—"

"Twenty minutes!" she repeated, grabbing me by the wrist and setting a brisk pace down the stairs. "We're on a schedule."

I scarcely had time to choke down some orange juice and porridge before Bea was chivvying me back up the stairs and into the dormitory.

"You didn't let me read the paper," I protested, sitting down on Bea's bed, as there was no space on mine. Bea was digging through a pile of my sweaters and waved me off distractedly.

She eventually decided on soft grey sweater dress that fell just above my knees and black leggings. After scolding me for failing to own a proper pair of dressy boots, she put an Engorgement Charm on a pair of her own, with explicit instructions to take them off before the charm started wearing off, lest they stretch permanently. She finished off the look with one of her wide belts, cinching it tight at the waist.

"I'm not sure the belt is necessary," I said, assessing my reflection.

"No, it's perfect," said Bea. "It ties the whole outfit together  _and_  it gives you a figure like an hourglass. Now sit down, I've barely got time to get your hair and makeup sorted."

Bea refused to let me look in a mirror during this next part—"it's better if you see the finished product"—so I spent the next twenty minutes or so staring blankly into space while Bea muttered to herself and fussed with hairpins and innumerable pots and tubes of every beauty product imaginable, occasionally instructing me to look up, look down, close my eyes, or stop fidgeting.

"Right," she said finally, capping a tube of lipstick. She looked appraisingly at me and smiled. "I think that does it. You can have a look now."

"You realize that I've put an enormous amount of trust—?"

"Oh go on and look in the mirror," said Bea, rolling her eyes.

I stood and turned to face the full-length mirror. Bea had done a nice job—she'd pulled my hair back into a loose chignon at the nape of my neck, letting a few artful tendrils escape here and there. The makeup that she'd chosen was soft and natural, emphasizing my eyes and lending my lips and cheeks a rosy sort of glow. I looked like…well, I looked like a girl who was about to go on a proper date.

_But it's a fake date_ , said a small, nasty voice inside of me. I hastily banished that thought. Now was not the time for that sort of reflection, not with Bea looking at me expectantly and the clock ticking away the minutes until I was due to meet Fred.

"Trust well placed," I said with a smile. "Thanks, Bea."

"You're quite welcome." She looked at her watch. "Ooh, we should get going."

We bundled up in our coats and scarves and hurried down to the courtyard. Fred spotted me first.

"There she is, the lady of the hour," he greeted, accompanied by George who was grinning mischievously. "How are you, my dove?"

"Keep calling me 'my dove' and this date will be over quite quickly," I said archly.

"Ooh, she's being shirty," said Bea in the sort of indulgent tone that a parent might use to describe a precocious toddler. "That means she fancies you."

"I like my women feisty," said Fred, eyes twinkling as he grabbed hold of my hand and began pulling me toward the queue of students waiting for Filch to check their names against the list of students with Hogsmeade privileges. "Come on, now, George'll look after Bea."

"I'll keep her out of trouble," said George solemnly. "Same as I do during class."

Bea snorted. "Right."

"Look, Bea, I didn't want to tell you this, but that whole spectacle was a setup," said Fred.

"The two of you had become far too disruptive during class," added George.

"The laughing…"

"Mucking about…"

"Not paying attention…"

"And that terrible scene with the Dungbombs…"

"It had to be stopped," sighed Fred.

"We just didn't want to hurt your feelings," said George, patting Bea on the shoulder consolingly.

"I'm touched, truly," deadpanned Bea.

"See? She's in excellent hands," said Fred.

"Nothing to worry about," said George cheerily. Bea said something that I didn't quite catch as Fred led me away, although the arch of her eyebrow told me that it was likely sarcastic.

The line moved slowly. Filch barely gave me a second glance, but his eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Fred and he seemed to take extra care looking through his list, peering beadily at Fred as though he believed he could detect rule breaking through the mere power of squinting.

"I've got my eye on you," he said finally, jabbing a finger at Fred. "One toe out of line and there will be consequences, mark my words…"

"Cheers," said Fred brightly, as though Filch had merely commented on the weather or the dinner menu for that evening.

"I half expected you to smart off," I said quietly once we were out of earshot and walking up to the village.

Fred chuckled. "No, learned that lesson the hard way on the first Hogsmeade visit. He held us back for nearly two hours while he tried to talk McGonagall into revoking our Hogsmeade privileges."

"For smarting off?"

He shrugged. "Something about how that represented a clear intent to cause disruption. He wasn't far off—we did spend about half of our savings at Zonko's when we finally got up to the village."

I realized that we were still holding hands. Flushing, I made an attempt to drop Fred's hand. He squeezed my hand more tightly.

"We're on a date, Lewis," he said quietly, leaning toward me a little.

"Oh, right. Sorry, forgot."

"Forgot?" he said, chuckling. "That's a new one."

"Well, I haven't been on many fake dates," I said primly. "Speaking of which, where are we going?"

"Madam Puddifoot's, of course."

" _Madam_   _Puddifoot's_?"

"You look like I've suggested tea in Azkaban," said Fred, looking genuinely entertained. "You  _may_ want to look a little more pleased—if anyone looks over right now, they're not going to think you're happy about this."

I forced a smile. "Tea in Azkaban would be an improvement. I  _hate_  Madam Puddifoot's."

"So do I, but that's not the point. If we want to get people talking, that's the best place for us to be spotted."

I held back a sigh, trying to keep my face relaxed and happy. He was, of course, right.

"Fine. But only for a half hour and then we're going to the Three Broomsticks like sensible people."

"One hour and I'll buy you a butterbeer."

It wasn't a great bargain, but I suspected I didn't have many other options.

"All right," I conceded.

It was early yet, but Madam Puddifoot's was already half full of couples and just as revolting as I remembered it. We grabbed a table by the window, not very far from Rochelle DiLaurentis and Oliver Esposito. There was no sign of Aidan or Angelina. I couldn't decide if I was relieved or disappointed. We ordered our coffees and shrugged off our coats.

"All right," I said with a sigh. "Note the time on your watch. One hour."

"It's not all that bad," said Fred, looking around at the frilly décor. "It's quite cozy."

"You're baiting me."

Fred grinned. "'Course I am."

Madam Puddifoot returned with our coffees and I quickly busied myself with the milk and sugar.

"You look quite nice," said Fred. I looked up, startled, feeling a blush start to creep up my neck.

"Oh, thanks," I said, accidentally knocking the lid off the sugar bowl. "It was all Bea."

"Ah, yes, the social secretary."

"Wardrobe and makeup consultant as well." I stirred my coffee. "She's very much in favor of this…" I gestured vaguely at the two of us. "Thinks it'll be good for me."

Fred raised his eyebrows. "I think that's the first time anyone's ever suggested I'm a positive influence. It feels very strange."

"How the mighty have fallen," I said. "She thinks I don't have enough fun."

Fred seemed to consider this for a moment, but before he could offer any sort of observation, the bells on the door tinkled and George burst into the teashop out of breath. Bea trailed behind him.

"Hi," he said coming up to our table. He flashed me a charming smile. "Sorry to interrupt, but I need to borrow Fred for just a moment."

"What for?" said Fred and I at the same time.

" _He's_  here." George looked significantly at Fred. "Three Broomsticks."

Fred's expression suddenly became serious. "Well, we've got to—"

"I know that's why—"

"Since he hasn't—"

"None of the owls—"

Fred was fumbling for his coat and scarf now. "Sorry, Charlotte. I've got to—"

"See a man about a dragon," supplied George. "Bea will keep you company."

Bea, who had been looking rather lost during this entire exchange, started at the sound of her name. "I will?"

"Right you are," said George, steering her into the chair that Fred had just vacated. "You can talk about…whatever it is that girls talk about."

"Makeup and goblin politics," suggested Fred.

"Sounds about right."

Fred leaned in quite suddenly and pecked me briefly on the lips. "I'm really sorry—I'll be back soon."

He and George dashed out the door of the shop, the bells tinkling merrily as the door slammed shut behind them.

"What just happened?" I asked.

Bea shrugged. "We went into the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer. Next thing I know, George is dragging me up the street muttering about needing to find Fred."

"Any idea who they need to talk to so desperately?"

Bea helped herself to a sip of Fred's coffee, made a face, and reached for the sugar bowl. "No idea. There were loads of people in there—some goblins as well." She dumped several heaping spoonfuls of sugar into Fred's coffee.

"I think he takes his coffee black," I said.

"Shouldn't have left then," said Bea, stirring the coffee briskly. "So, how's your date?"

"Er, well, we walked up here, chatted some, and then he ran off," I said, shrugging. "So I'm not entirely sure…he did say I looked nice, though."

"Nice enough that he'd better have a bloody good excuse for running off on you."

"Well it seemed quite important," I said as Bea took another sip of her coffee. "What're you still doing with George?"

"Funny thing: the two of you being on a date means that George and I are on our own. So, we decided to spare each other the loneliness. We were planning your wedding before George bolted out of the Three Broomsticks."

"Wonderful," I said without any enthusiasm.

"It will be very tasteful," said Bea. "George reckons that Snape would only wear a boa and pasties for the reception, not the ceremony."

Luckily I was spared from further disturbing imagery by the arrival of Fred and George. They were both red-cheeked, out of breath, and seemed rather put out.

"— _something_  about it…" George was saying in a low voice as he and Fred approached our table.

"Right then," said Bea, rising from her seat. "Well, George and I will be off. We've got a ceremony to plan."

"Yes, I had a thought about that," said George to Bea, his dour manner seeming to lift slightly. "How do you feel about a chorus of house-elves?"

"Ooh! We could have them carry candles!"

George winked at me as he and Bea departed, deep in conversation about whether there was a way to get a chorus of house-elves into some white ceremonial robes without accidentally setting them free or offending them with clothes.

"What's this about singing house-elves?" asked Fred as he resituated himself in his seat, shrugging off his coat and scarf.

"They're planning our wedding."

"Ah, of course," said Fred, seeming unperturbed both by the fact that George and Bea were planning our wedding and that it involved singing house-elves. "Sorry to run out like that."

"What was that about?"

"Long story," he said, taking a sip of his coffee. He winced and nearly spat it out.

"I've got time."

"Well, it's—" He seemed to be searching for the right word as he set his coffee aside. "It's rather…sensitive."

"'Rather sensitive?' What happened to your talk of 'baring souls' and 'trust of our new-forged friendship?' And don't you think you owe me a proper explanation after dashing out like that?"

He grinned. "All right, Lewis. But you're not to breathe a word of this to anyone."

"Fred Weasley, I would rather die than betray a dance partner," I said, quoting his assertion of loyalty from the Yule Ball.

"Cheeky." He suddenly reached across the table and grabbed my hand. "Might as well give the impression of romance—don't roll your eyes, you're ruining the moment."

I tried my best to affix a benign, flirty sort of expression on my face as I leaned across the table to hear him better.

"George and I made a bet at the World Cup this summer," he said quietly.

"What was your wager?"

"That Ireland would win, but Krum would catch the Snitch," he said. "We bet our savings."

I frowned. "But…that means you won…"

"Yes." There was no hiding the grim set of his jaw. "But the bookmaker paid out our winnings in leprechaun gold. It disappeared a few hours later. We thought it was a mistake at first, but he's been ignoring our letters. We tried to speak with him in the Three Broomsticks, but…"

I was horrified. "Who is it?"

"Bagman."

"My sister Alice is in the Ministry," I offered lamely. "I could see if she might be able to help."

"We're handling it," said Fred curtly and I could tell that the subject was good as closed.

"Well…if you change your mind…"

He gave a small, grim half-smile and squeezed my hand lightly. The bell on the shop door tinkled and I glanced up at the door before looking quickly away.

"Don't look," I said quietly. "My friend and…his friend just walked in."

"We really need to think of proper code names…"

I tried to focus on Fred. Aidan and Genevieve made their way to a table that was—of course—just to the right of us. Aidan was gallantly pulling out a chair for Genevieve, his hand lingering on her shoulder as she smiled widely—

"Hey—Charlotte." My gaze had strayed for only half a second, but Fred had seen it. He squeezed my hand.

I took a deep breath. "Sorry. Wasn't expecting—" I trailed off. "Is it stupid of me not to expect it at this point?"

He squeezed my hand again. "Talk to me about something," he suggested.

"What?"

"Anything. Were you at the World Cup this summer?"

"Yes, it was our Lewis Sister Adventure," I said.

He looked amused. "Your what?"

"A Lewis Sister Adventure. It's a family tradition, I suppose. We go somewhere every year—just the four of us. For bonding, or what have you."

"Sounds like a laugh."

"Oh, it's usually marvelous until Ophelia picks a fight," I said. "That sets off a chain reaction: Alice storms off in a huff, Bianca yells shrilly at everyone, and I sit there quietly wondering how I came to be related to three maniacs. Two hours later, there's a teary group hug and everything is resolved until the next time."

"I'm glad I've only got the one sister," said Fred fervently.

"There are advantages and disadvantages." I could hear Genevieve giggling.

Fred squeezed my hand again. "Keep talking."

I told him about how the previous summer, our Lewis Sister Adventure had been a weekend in London, staying at a nice hotel. Alice painted my toenails with varnish that had been bewitched to change with my mood while Bianca and Ophelia chortled over a game of Gobstones. That evening, Ophelia ordered takeaway from two different Chinese restaurants because one didn't have eggrolls on the menu and the other had the audacity to put mushrooms in their lo mein. Bianca tried firewhisky for the first time, which didn't help matters when Ophelia picked her obligatory fight, which was abruptly ended when Bianca, stuffed with mushroom-free lo mein and firewhisky, vomited spectacularly into her own handbag. I'd laughed so hard that I cried, while Ophelia yelled at me for being immature and Bianca yelled at Ophelia for yelling and making her headache worse. Alice, having earlier stormed off to the adjoining bedroom in a huff, opened the door long enough to yell at Ophelia for bringing firewhisky in the first place.

I don't know why I chose this stupid, rambling, and somewhat embarrassing story, but the more I talked, the easier it was to retain my focus and tune out the low rumble of Aidan's voice and the occasional giggle from Genevieve.

"Hour's almost up," said Fred, discreetly glancing at his watch. "I reckon we should probably do a little snogging before we leave." He glanced pointedly at Nadia Minkowski and Otis Warren, who seemed to be doing their best to swallow one another whole.

"Can't we do that in the Three Broomsticks?" The perfumed air was starting to make me feel dizzy.

Fred grinned. "Brilliant idea, we'll have a go there as well." He was leaning in closer now. "If people see us here, it gives it a certain amount of legitimacy. Besides, your hour isn't up."

I sighed. "You're bloody impossible."

Fred tutted. "I'm about to kiss you, Lewis. Try to look a little more starry-eyed."

My heart thudded heavily in my chest as he closed the gap between us. Madam Puddifoot's was more public than the dark corridor…and I suppose it seemed more likely that Aidan might catch a glimpse of us in better lighting. This made me unaccountably nervous—what would he think? Would it matter at all?

Fred's hand crept to the back of my neck to draw me closer, almost as if to say  _Enough, Lewis. It's a fake relationship. Stop thinking so much_.

I shut my eyes and tried to tune out the sounds around me, losing myself in the taste of coffee and oranges.


	5. Dastardly Plans

I suppose I shouldn't have been terribly surprised that my first fake date with Fred Weasley ended in a manner that could only be described as unconventional—and not the unexpected-but-relatively-normal-all-things-considered sort of unconventional, either. This was a shoeless-and-carried-off-under-protest-to-Gryffindor-Tower sort of unconventional. It was the sort of thing you ought to expect on a date with Fred Weasley—which is to say that you probably wouldn't expect it.

I sound like a madwoman. I suppose that's a side effect of agreeing to one of Fred Weasley's plans: you start thinking in riddles and the world starts to look like a dizzying optical illusion. But perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.

"Where to?" asked Fred as we left the Three Broomsticks. "Shrieking Shack? You can pretend to be scared and leap into my arms."

"Not in these boots," I said, flexing my toes. Bea's boots had started to pinch on the walk back from Madam Puddifoot's and had grown steadily more uncomfortable.

"Great art requires great sacrifice," said Fred.

"I didn't realize that this was art."

"'Course it is," he scoffed. "Isn't art about storytelling? Maybe even illusion? Is that not what we're doing?"

"I don't know—" I broke off as the mild pinching on my toes suddenly changed to a persistent and intense pressure.

"All right?"

"Yes, it's just these bloody boots."

"What about them?"

"They're Bea's. She's got little feet, we had to put an—" The reason for my discomfort became suddenly and horrifyingly clear. I dropped to the ground and began tugging at the clasp on my right boot.

"Er—"

"Engorgement Charm," I said as I struggled with the clasp and Fred understood. He knelt down and began working on the left boot. Two almighty yanks and both boots were off with not a moment to spare—they had shrunk back to their original size. My feet were a little blistered but none the worse for wear.

"Well, that was thrilling," said Fred. "I thought it would take at least five fake dates before I got you out of your shoes, but this isn't quite what I envisioned."

"Shut it," I said, swatting at him. He easily dodged me.

"Is that any way to treat your knight in shining armor?"

"I may be Cinderella, but you, sir, are no prince."

Fred frowned. "Who?"

"Cinderella. Muggle fairy tale." The snow was beginning to chill my toes and seep into the back of my dress. "Right, well, I suppose I could conjure—"

"No, I've a better idea," said Fred in a cheerful sort of manner that was not at all reassuring. "Here, take this." He handed me the left boot.

"What are you—?"

He hooked one arm under my knees and the other around my waist and lifted me off the ground.

"Chivalry lives on!" he declared, grinning.

"Are you mad? Put me down!"

"Like I said, Lewis, we're great artists." He lowered his voice slightly. "This will turn some heads."

"And throw out some backs!"

He chuckled. "Hardly. Now stop it or I'll drop you in a snow bank."

"You wouldn't."

"I would."

"Fred Weasley—"

He relaxed his arms for a split second and I yelped, throwing my arms around his neck.

"You're horrible!"

"Again with the insults," he sighed. "Really, Lewis, I've literally swept you off your feet and all I get is abuse."

"Yes, well, I don't recall any knights in shining armor who threatened to drop their damsels into a  _snow bank_."

"I don't recall any damsels being so cheeky. Now tell me about that Muggle fairy tale you were talking about earlier. Cinderwhatsit."

To an observer, I suppose it must have looked rather romantic: a long-legged boy carrying a shoeless girl through the snow, into a castle, and up the stairs, their faces reddened laughter and the cold. The reality was that the rosy-cheeked girl was telling the boy a fairy tale that he found both hilarious and utterly confounding.

"I still don't understand why the prince needed a shoe to work out who Cinderella was," he said as we approached the portrait of the Fat Lady. "Was he Confunded?"

"I told you, he wasn't under any spells."

"But if he's not enchanted, I don't see why a shoe needs to be involved. She's the love of his life: shouldn't he recognize her?"

"Fred, it's a fairy tale. It's not meant to be practical."

"Yes, but that seems like quite an oversight, even for Muggles."

"What on earth are you doing?" asked the Fat Lady, frowning at us.

"Chivalry lives on!" said Fred cheerily. The Fat Lady looked mildly impressed.

"Oh, don't encourage him," I sighed.

"A well-mannered—" she began.

"Edelweiss," I said and the portrait door swung open.

"Well,  _really_!" exclaimed the Fat Lady.

"That really was quite rude," tutted Fred, carrying me into the common room. He deposited me neatly on a couch by the fire before collapsing beside me. "As a prefect, you ought to be setting an impeccable example, you know."

"Oh, do shut up," I said, dropping the boots on the floor and shrugging out of my coat. "You really oughtn't have done that."

"I can still drop you in a snow bank," he said, grinning and kicking off his own boots.

"I'm just trying to look out for your well-being," I said, chucking my scarf and gloves on the floor. "If you'd thrown out your back hauling me up the stairs, I couldn't live with the guilt. You'd never play Quidditch again."

Fred looked as though he was about to say something when his eyes flicked over to a corner of the common room and the grin faded from his face. I followed his gaze and understood: Angelina and Lee, cuddled up in an overstuffed armchair, her hands tangled in his hair, his hands gripping the small of her back, their eyes closed, lips pressed together.

"Hey." I took Fred's hand and his eyes flicked back to me. "Talk to me about something."

He smiled—not a full smile, but almost. "About what?"

I shrugged and shifted on the couch so that I was facing him, tucking both legs under me. "I dunno, I shared a lengthy, embarrassing family story with you. Let's have one of yours."

"All right."

And so he told me about how he and George once spent an entire summer taming a squirrel that lived in a maple tree in their garden. He was entirely brown except for one white patch around his eye, which made him look a bit like a pirate. They called him Reginald. By July, he was eating food directly from their hands and they had trained him to run on a little wheel that they'd made from a repurposed biscuit tin. In August, their mother walked in on them unexpectedly while they were trying to teach Reginald to navigate a miniature obstacle course that they had built using—among other things—several of her good saucepans and a large ornamental vase. The boys were grounded for the remainder of the summer and Reginald permanently banned from the premises.

"Honestly, she was mostly upset about the vase," said Fred. He had angled himself on the couch so that he was facing me, his left foot hooked under his right knee and his left arm draped casually over the back of the couch. Lee and Angelina were still there, but not directly in his line of sight. His face had relaxed and he seemed much more like himself.

"I think that was entirely warranted," I said. "Was it especially fragile?"

"No, belonged to my great-great-great-great-great grandfather or some relative," he said. "It may have been gifted to him by the Minister or someone important."

"A family heirloom with historical significance. And you used it for a squirrel obstacle course," I said pointedly.

"Well, we didn't  _know_  that at the time," he protested. "Mum had never told us. It was just a big vase that was out in the parlor and we needed something tall."

"Be honest: would you have used something else if you'd known that?"

Fred sighed. "Who am I to question the hand dealt to me by fate, Lewis? Can any man say for certain that his path would be different based on what he did not know?"

" _I_  think you still would have done it," I said, smiling slyly. "You just thought you weren't going to get  _caught_."

"I thought you dropped Divination with the rest of us this year."

"It's not Divination, Weasley, just context clues and common sense."

He chuckled. "Well, she grounded us for the rest of the summer. Problem with that strategy was that she could only last about three or four days before she'd start yelling at us to go outside and get out of her hair."

A low giggle from Angelina sounded from across the common room. Fred's smile faltered almost imperceptibly. I quickly stepped in.

"I have never been grounded."

Fred looked genuinely shocked. " _Never_?"

"Not once. My sisters were grounded loads of times, especially Ophelia. Dad actually spelled her window shut one summer because she kept sneaking out to meet unsuitable boys."

"What made them unsuitable?"

"Oh, leather jackets and piercings and motorbikes and the like," I said. "It was almost a bit clichéd. They all had nicknames like Spider or Grunt."

"You're making that up," he said with a laugh.

"I am not. There was one called Spleen who was missing three fingers and a tooth."

"That cannot possibly be a real person."

"I assure you, he's real. Ophelia dated him for about six weeks and he came round to dinner a few times. He was actually quite a nice chap—he'd always bring flowers for Mum and he taught me how to play Muggle card games."

Fred chortled. "So, your sister has an ex-boyfriend named Spleen and you have never been grounded."

"I live a fascinating life."

"Not too fascinating if you've never been grounded," said Fred. His eyes lit up as a thought occurred to him. "Or it's quite possibly very fascinating and you've just never been caught."

"Well…" I paused.

"Well…" said Fred, his smile becoming more devious. "What are you going to confess, Lewis?"

"I snuck out of the house once," I said, rather enjoying the look of shock on Fred's face. "It was over summer holiday. A girl called Sibyl Mercer was having a bonfire in her backyard and I knew my parents wouldn't let me go because it started at midnight."

Fred looked positively delighted. "Charlotte Lewis the  _prefect_  sneaking out to illicit midnight bonfire parties! I misjudged you."

"Don't get too excited," I said. "It was terribly disappointing—they were all half pissed when I got there and they had put on this horrid album by some depressing Muggle band. I remember this one boy kept going on about how it was revolutionary and people just don't understand what good music is anymore. I was back home by half past midnight."

"So you're a rebel in training," conceded Fred. "Tell you what: I'll take you to an illicit bonfire party for our second date and make up for it. It will live up to all of your expectations."

I raised an eyebrow. I wasn't entirely sure if he was joking. "If you can manage it, I might consider it."

Fred grinned. "Challenge accepted. You won't be disappointed."

"I should hope not." I glanced at the window and noted that the sun was fairly low in the sky. "What time is it?"

Fred looked at his watch. "Blimey. Half past five."

"Well, I'm supposed to meet Bea at six to deliver my report on today's events," I said, suddenly feeling rather awkward. "So I suppose we ought to conclude this? I'm not really sure what the etiquette is for this sort of thing…"

Fred chuckled. "You're concerned about etiquette?"

"What?" I said, somewhat defensively. "I mean, I haven't really…" I cleared my throat. I wasn't really interested in sharing the particulars of my lack of experience with dates, fake or otherwise. I lowered my voice. "It's not like I've been on many fake first dates."

Fred grinned and rose from the couch, grabbing me by my hands and pulling me to my feet. "Come on, I'll show you the proper way to close a fake first date."

"Since when are you an expert?"

"Ooh, that's a faux pas, Lewis," scolded Fred. "Never antagonize your handsome gentleman companion. Luckily, I'm a very forgiving sort."

"Luckily."

Fred smiled and put his hands on my waist, drawing me close. "For whatever it's worth," he said quietly, "I did have a nice time, Charlotte. Even though it's all part of our dastardly plan."

I could help but smile. "Me too. Thanks, Fred."

"Not at all." His hand had crept up to cup the back of my neck and I knew that he was going to kiss me. "I'll meet up with you at lunch on Monday to plan the next one."

"I think Bea may kill you if you don't," I said, only half-joking. "She is very much convinced of this whole thing."

"Duly noted." He closed the gap between us and kissed me softly. It was gentle and sweet in a way that caught me slightly off guard—it was a softer version of our various encounters in the corridor, and somehow more intimate than the kiss at Madam Puddifoot's.

He pulled away a moment later, and gave me a quick wink.

"I'll see you later."

"See you."

After he left, I sat back down on the couch. My knees were a bit wobbly—I hadn't really had a proper lunch, I recalled. Only coffee and some biscuits at Madam Puddifoot's. No wonder I was feeling lightheaded. I'd feel better after dinner.

I ought to have known better.

* * *

 

The tricky thing about going on a first date—even a fake first date—is that if you happen to live at a place like Hogwarts, there is absolutely no escaping it. Even if it goes well, there is some level of awkwardness—not only are you in close proximity to your date, you are also in close proximity to the commentary and analysis that follows. The social community at Hogwarts is both insular and closely knit, to the point that any sort of change or disruption to interpersonal relationships is subject to a certain amount of speculation and curiosity. Though our plan was ridiculous by anyone's definition, at Hogwarts it had at least a minimal chance of success: at Hogwarts, no one's business was strictly their own.

This is doubly true if your best friend happens to be Bea Pierce.

As I expected, the interrogation started at dinner, with a demand for a full play-by-play account of every single thing that we had done since she had left me at Madam Puddifoot's. No detail was too inconsequential, nothing could be omitted or overlooked. When I got to the part about the Engorgement Charm wearing off and Fred carrying me up to Gryffindor Tower, she actually sighed.

"Bea, you cannot possibly think this is a grand romantic gesture."

"You cannot possibly think that it's  _not_!" she said, affronted. "That is so romantic it may as well be from a bloody fairy tale. That is the sort of moment that people immortalize in tapestries that they hang in their libraries and great rooms."

"You are neglecting to acknowledge the fact that we both have magic at our disposal," I said. "I could have easily remedied the situation if he hadn't insisted on being an idiot."

"Charlotte," said Bea in the same, overly patient tone that one might use when addressing a small child, "when a bloke  _literally_  sweeps you off of your feet and carries you unnecessarily up many flights of stairs, it is because he fancies you. It is  _not_  because it is a practical solution."

"He could have seriously injured himself."

"And he risked that for you!" said Bea, bringing both hands to her heart with a wholly unnecessary amount of drama and another extravagant sigh. "That makes it even  _more_  romantic!"

"It makes it ill-advised," I corrected her.

Bea glanced heavenward and sighed as though I was causing her physical pain. "This is quite possibly the most romantic thing in the history of Hogwarts and it is utterly wasted on you."

"I'm concerned for his well-being!" I protested. "I think I'm being very thoughtful."

"Did you notice I didn't even ask about my boots? That's how romantic this is: I don't even care if they're ruined if they were ruined in service of this great moment."

"Your boots are fine, we got them off in time. I'm not so sure about you, though."

"I  _should_  turn this into a tapestry," said Bea, pretending not to hear me. "It would make a lovely wedding gift. I'll do a border of trains around it as well so your children understand the powerful metaphor that brought you two together."

"I thought we had exhausted the train metaphor."

"I thought I had made my commitment to this metaphor very clear. Now, I'm sure I could find a spell to do the tapestry, but would it be a more meaningful gift if I learned to weave and did it the Muggle way?"

"Do you want to hear about the rest of my date, or are you just going to soliloquize about trains and tapestries for the rest of the evening?"

Bea's commitment to both the tapestry and the train metaphor was second only to her insatiable curiosity about my personal life. She was rapt as she listened to the rest of my account, interrupting every so often to quiz me on some minute detail.

"So," she said after a while, "inquiring minds wish to know: will there be a second date? Follow up question: when?"

"We didn't really discuss specifics but…" I smiled and glanced quickly at Fred down at the other end of the table. "…I have a feeling that there will be another one."

True to his word, Fred showed up at lunch on Monday with smile and a plan.

"Lewis," he said, sliding into the seat next to me, "what are you doing on Saturday?"

Bea caught my eye and waggled her eyebrows in an entirely unsubtle way. I ignored her.

"It depends. What time on Saturday?"

He grinned. "Midnight."

"Sleeping, I imagine. Why?"

"Did I not promise you a non-disappointing illicit midnight bonfire party for our second date?"

I was at a loss for words. "Er—well, yes…"

"And did you not say that you would consider it if I could manage to get it arranged?"

"I was under the impression that you were joking."

His smile grew wider and he looked enormously pleased with himself. "You've got to learn to take me more seriously, love."

"Wait a moment," Bea interjected, "you promised her an illicit bonfire party?"

"It's what every girl wants," said George, taking a seat next to Bea. "We read about it in  _Witch Weekly_."

"Are you not aware of Charlotte's scandalous history as a frequenter of disappointing illicit midnight bonfire parties?" Fred asked Bea.

"It was one time," I protested. "Sibyl Mercer's party. I told you about it, Bea—it was horrid."

"Oh right!" said Bea with a wide smile. "The one with the drunks and music philosophers! I'd forgotten about that."

"Do you actually mean to tell me that Fred was being serious about you sneaking out of the house?" asked George, looking even more shocked than Fred had when I'd told him the story. "I assumed he was being hyperbolic."

"He probably was, but yes, I did on  _one_  occasion sneak out of my house to attend a bonfire party at midnight," I said.

George gave a low whistle. "Charlotte, I'm impressed."

"So, to clarify: you're throwing an illicit bonfire party at midnight on Saturday," said Bea.

"A  _non-disappointing_  illicit bonfire party at midnight on Saturday," clarified Fred.

"It's a select group of sixth and seventh years, so we're trying to keep it relatively quiet," said George. "Of course, you're both on the list."

"I should hope so," said Bea.

"So?" Fred nudged me with his elbow. "What d'you say, Lewis?"

"Again, I must clarify: this is a  _proper_  date," said Bea.

"As proper as a non-disappointing illicit midnight bonfire party can be," said Fred.

Bea nodded, looking pleased. "Very good, she accepts your offer."

"Now wait a minute—" I protested.

"D'you think you should negotiate first?" George asked Bea. "See if you can get some flowers or jewelry out of it."

"That's a fair point…" mused Bea.

"How is it that the two of you are always here when we're trying to arrange something?" I asked. "Am I not afforded any privacy in this school?"

"It's part of my job," said Bea. "Social secretary and wardrobe consultant, don't you remember?"

"We take it very seriously," added George.

I sighed and turned to Fred. "Look, this is very thoughtful of you, but sneaking out of school after hours? That's a serious infraction. If we're caught—"

Fred looked at George and they both laughed.

"You're with us, love," said Fred. "We don't get caught."

"We're professionals," added George.

"It'll be fine," said Fred. "Trust me."

I took a deep breath. Sneaking out of my house was one thing; sneaking out of school was on an entirely different level. Sneaking out of my own house had risks, but sneaking out of school was the sort of rule-breaking that made me feel sweaty and a little queasy. Getting caught felt inevitable.

But Fred's mischievous smile was reassuring in its own strange way and the twinkle in his eye made me feel like perhaps he was right. Perhaps it would be all right.

One more deep breath.  _I am done being careful_ , I reminded myself.

"All right."


	6. Bonfire

I felt l like I was living a double life in the week leading up to the bonfire party. I was deducting house points for rule breaking with the full knowledge that on Saturday, I would be shattering several important school rules myself. I felt a little guilty—it was at best hypocritical. But at the same time, I argued, was I really hurting anyone by sneaking out of school after hours? Certainly I was putting myself at risk—Hogwarts is home to a number of creatures that only come out after dark—but my attendance at that party did not directly endanger anyone else. And surely everyone who planned on attending this party was aware of the associated risks. I wasn't making them go—in fact, I had absolutely no impact on their choice. The fact that Fred was throwing the party for me did not mean that I was responsible for any of the consequences.

"We've got to get you out more," said Bea when I explained my concerns.

"I'm just trying to rationalize this."

"Charlotte, that's not the point!" said Bea. "It's fun and stupid! There is no rationalizing or thinking—it's all adrenaline and guts."

Fred's feedback was similarly unhelpful.

"This is just the first step, Lewis," he said, eyes gleaming. "We're going to break you from this prison of rules and turn you into a free woman. Third date, we'll break into Gringotts."

It is a struggle, sometimes, to be the only person who takes you seriously.

Bea had, once again, appointed herself wardrobe consultant and was far more concerned about what I was going to wear to this illicit midnight bonfire party than the potential trouble I could be in for attending it. When I pointed this out to her, she merely said that if I'm going to break the rules for the first time in my sad, dull life, I might as well look smashing while I'm doing it. A disconcerting amount of her time was now spent rooting around in my wardrobe and tossing potential outfit combinations on my bed.

"You know, you can't do this every single time I have a date," I told her on Thursday as she dug through a stack of jumpers.

"Yes, well, you'll remember this next time you decide to keep secrets from me about who you are snogging in corridors, now won't you?" she said cheerfully, holding up an oversize grey jumper before tossing it aside.

"As I said last time, you had better put everything back right," I warned, taking the jumper and refolding it neatly.

"Honestly, Charlotte, a little disorder in your life will not kill you. It may even do you some good."

"I spent fifteen minutes looking for my socks on Tuesday!"

Bea picked up a green linen dress. "Think of it as character building."

"I've plenty of character. And I'm not wearing that summer dress to an outdoor bonfire party in the middle of winter, so you can put that back."

"Oh keep your hair on, I'm only looking," said Bea, tossing the dress onto the pile of rejects. "Although your winter wardrobe needs a little updating. You'll not be wearing those awful long johns, I can tell you that."

"Why not? They go on under your trousers, no one's going to see them. And they're very warm!"

Bea sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. "That's not the point, Charlotte. You don't wear long johns on a second date. You wear something pretty, maybe something with some lace."

"It's a second date at a party with loads of people. There will be no opportunity for extracurricular activities."

"It doesn't matter whether he's going to see it or not, it's about the  _attitude_  that fancy knickers give you," said Bea.

"That is ridiculous."

"No, it's not because I went through your knickers and Merlin's pants, they are boring."

"What? When did you—?"

"It definitely explains your strange preoccupation with rules and rule breaking," said Bea, as though she hadn't heard me. "Your knickers are practically government issued. Not even a fun pattern or something with lace!"

"I cannot believe you went through my knickers," I said, shaking my head.

"Oh, don't be so shocked," scolded Bea. "You've seen mine."

"Only because you never shut the drawers on your wardrobe."

Bea waved me off dismissively. "Irrelevant. The point is that your boring knickers are making you a stick in the mud. You and I will be going shopping at the next opportunity that presents itself. Now." She clapped her hands together. "Where did I put those black trousers?"

By Friday, I was starting to get nervous. I couldn't seem to keep still—I was constantly jiggling a leg, biting a fingernail, twisting a lock of hair round and round my forefinger. Fred noticed, as he was wont to do.

"What's got into you?" he asked toward the end of Defense Against the Dart Arts. We were supposed to be working on our essays, but Professor Moody had stepped out of the classroom to speak with Professor McGonagall, and most people were talking quietly among themselves.

"Nothing," I said quickly.

He arched an eyebrow. "Nothing?"

"I'm fine."

He sighed. "Lewis. Do you really think I'm that thick?"

"We are  _supposed_  to be working on our essays, Weasley," I said, using my best prefect voice, which I liked to think of as a combination of Professor McGonagall and the "You'll have her home by eleven or I'll have your head on a pike and make it look like an accident" voice that Dad always used with the most unsuitable of Ophelia's boyfriends.

This had very little effect on Fred. Of course. I don't know why I thought it would, to be honest. He simply grinned and plucked the quill directly from my hand.

"Hey!"

"We've got five minutes left in class and you're practically done with this anyway." He stuck the quill behind his ear and crossed his arms.

"I think I'm a better judge of that."

"Nonsense."

"I still have to write a conclusion."

"You write conclusions in your sleep, Lewis. You can have it back when you tell me what's wrong."

"It's nothing."

I made a grab for the quill and he easily ducked aside.

"I'm only going to get more annoying the longer you hold out," he said, not even trying to hide a smile. "I have a whole catalog of very irritating songs that I perform exclusively for occasions like these."

"Fred."

"Charlotte."

We stared at each other for a good thirty seconds before his gaze strayed to my right hand, which was tapping a nervous sort of rhythm on the surface of the desk. He placed his hand over mine, threading his fingers in between my own, stilling my nervous tapping. We'd held hands before, of course, but this was different somehow—quieting and intimate in a way that threw me off balance and made a flush prickle at the base of my throat.

I exhaled sharply. "You're just going to laugh at me."

"Charlotte," said Fred softly, "I promise that I will only laugh at you a  _little_."

And just like that the spell was broken—the moment of quiet dissipated and my anxiety ceded to laughter.

"You're a prat," I said, not unkindly. Fred merely raised his eyebrows expectantly. I looked away from him, turning my attention to a stray thread on the sleeve of my jumper. "It's nothing. I'm…I'm just nervous. About the bonfire. It's stupid, I know, I just…I don't break that many school rules."

"Oh, is that all it is?" said Fred, sounding as though he'd anticipated hearing something worse. "Lewis, you're a damn delight but sometimes you are utterly confounding."

"Right. Can I have my quill back?"

"Not until you listen to what I have to say. D'you remember what I said when I asked you to this illicit midnight bonfire party?"

"I don't recall precisely, but I imagine it involved delusions of grandeur in relation to your abilities as a covert party host."

"Sorry, the correct answer was: 'trust me.'" He lowered his voice. "Thing is, Lewis, while I have cultivated a reputation as an agent of chaos, trust—real trust—is actually pretty important to me. I don't let people down if I can help it."

That quiet, intimate feeling was back, prickling at my throat and warming my cheeks. His hand, I noticed, was still on mine.

"Fact is, I wouldn't go through with this if I thought we'd get caught or if I thought there was a chance of you getting in trouble."

"Yeah, but how can you be sure?"

He smiled. "Look, Lewis, I can't reveal my secrets, but let's just say I know a few things and called in a few favors."

His expression was open and strikingly sincere. I held his gaze for a long moment. Gradually, the anxiety that had coiled itself around my limbs loosened, long enough for me to realize that it wasn't in fact a permanent part of me.

I took a deep breath. In through my nose, out through my mouth.

"All right."

Fred smiled and squeezed my hand.

* * *

 And so, at five minutes before midnight, I found myself creeping across the darkened school grounds, my gloved hand clasped in Fred's. The partygoers had been split into groups so as not to attract attention—Fred and I were one of the last to go. The bonfire itself had been cloaked in several camouflaging spells, so Fred and I were stumbling in the dark toward what appeared to be nothing.

He suddenly stopped.

"Are we there?" I asked, my breath puffing out in clouds in front of me.

"No, look." He pointed to the sky. It was a particularly clear night and the stars were scattered thickly across the sky. "It's beautiful isn't it?"

"Fred Weasley, are you becoming a romantic?"

"Charlotte Lewis, I am offended by the implication that I'm  _not_." He grinned and pulled me close to him, arms twining around my waist. "Can't a bloke try to kiss a beautiful girl under the stars without ridicule?"

My cheeks prickled at the word "beautiful." It was the sort of word that always made me feel a little strange and self-conscious, like the next words out of the speaker's mouth would be "just kidding! You didn't  _really_  believe that, did you?"

Fred, of course, said nothing of the sort, and I disguised my discomfort with a question.

"We're in sight of the bonfire, aren't we?"

"Well, if you want to get technical about it." He smiled and brought his hand to my face, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. "C'mon, Lewis, it'll make for a stunning picture."

His nose was cold against my cheek, but his lips were warm and inviting. It was a short kiss, soft and sweet. He broke away after a moment, keeping his face still awfully close to mine.

"Your nose is cold," I said.

"So's yours. Come on, we're almost there."

We walked another twenty feet or so before coming to a small group of pines. Fred took out his wand, muttered a short incantation and heat, light, and laughter materialized before us. There were about thirty people there—sixth and seventh years as Fred had said. Seating had been improvised from rough boards, fallen logs, and the occasional picnic blanket. Someone had borrowed the radio from the Gryffindor common room and propped it up on a decaying tree stump. Firewhisky was making the rounds.

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. This wasn't the horrid bogeyman that I'd made it out to be.

Fred nudged me. "Told you it wouldn't be disappointing."

"I'm reserving judgment," I said. But I was smiling.

"Come on, let's find a seat."

I started to notice the stares as we approached the bonfire. There was a certain order of operations to these looks: a glance at Fred, then at me, then a furrowed brow and a more deliberate look at me, then back to Fred, and back to me. These were looks that were trying to reconcile what surely must be an illusion. Charlotte Lewis doesn't  _go_  to these sorts of parties. Charlotte Lewis wasn't even  _invited_  to these sorts of parties. It wasn't that I was a prefect—it's that I wasn't that  _sort_  of prefect. There were some prefects who were comfortable looking the other way on minor indiscretions and taking liberties with the privileges they were afforded—there were more rumors about who had lost their virginity in the prefects' bathroom on the fifth floor than grains of sand on the beach. My name was decidedly  _not_  mentioned in those conversations. I was too straitlaced to even consider such a thing—and people knew that.

My anxiety was creeping back, coiling its way around my ribs and squeezing.

"Charlotte?"

Fred was looking back at me, hand still clasped in mine. I hadn't realized I'd stopped walking.

 _Get it together_. I smiled brightly. Too brightly, maybe. "Sorry, just remembered something I forgot to do."

Fred gave me that wry half smile, the one that he uses when he doesn't quite believe me.

"Look, there's a bench there," I said, pointing to a rough board balanced on two logs. I walked over, pulling Fred along with me.

"You're a terrible liar, Lewis," said Fred as we sat down together. "You went all pale. What's wrong?"

"Everyone is looking at me like I don't belong here," I said quietly through a fake smile.

Fred put his hand over mine and that same prickling blush crept to my throat. "No one is looking at you like that."

"Teagan McClintock is staring at me like I've got six heads."

"Teagan is routinely astounded by the world around her," said Fred. "It's rather refreshing, actually—you can show her just about anything and she's utterly delighted."

He wasn't wrong—I had once taught Teagan a mnemonic that I used to remember the order of the Ministers of Magic for the seventeenth through nineteenth centuries and it was as though I'd taught her how to win a duel with a tea towel.

"It's not just Teagan," I said. "It's everyone."

"It's not everyone."

"Well, everyone but you. And maybe Bea and George, wherever they've got to."

"Even with that concession, I think you're still overestimating."

"Is it really all that off base? I've cultivated a particular reputation, you know."

"And what's that?"

"Cold Shower Charlotte," I said, almost without thinking. My cheeks flushed slightly—this was one of those things that felt like if I said it out loud, that might make it true.

"You're going to have to explain that."

"It's just this stupid nickname one of Bianca's ex-boyfriends gave me. Hector Culpeper. He was two years ahead of us. Ravenclaw. I caught them snogging in the Charms corridor on a fairly regular basis."

"I'm not sure I follow—what does this have to do with the party?"

"It's just…" I searched for the right words. "I think that's what people think of me. I haven't exactly built a reputation for being fun. I am the Anti-Fun, if anything."

Fred paused for a moment, his expression turning uncharacteristically gentle. "I don't think you're sister's git of an ex-boyfriend gets to speak for anyone, let alone everyone."

I shrugged. "Maybe."

"There's no 'maybe' about it," he said. "And, in the unlikely event that there are some people who think that and if by some strange coincidence, they also happen to be at this party, here's what you need to do: prove them wrong."

I arched an eyebrow. "How exactly do I do that? Chuck the Hogwarts charter into the bonfire?"

"Hardly." He bumped his shoulder against mine. "Have fun. Stop worrying. Don't let them bother you. Just have fun."

"I don't know that one night of behaving differently is going to change anyone's opinion."

He shrugged. "It might not. But you'll have fun. Seems preferable to not having fun and worrying about something you can't change."

I opened my mouth to argue and found that I couldn't think of what to say in response.

"I suppose…I suppose that's reasonable," I said, finally.

Fred grinned. "I'm known for being a reasonable man."

"That is a lie."

"Always so cruel and cutting," said Fred.

"Always."

An interruption suddenly arrived in the form of Bea and George, who came bearing firewhiskys and two folded blankets.

"Ooh, are we disturbing your romantic moment?" said Bea, sitting down on a nearby log.

"Always," said Fred, dropping my hand and putting an arm around my shoulders. I snorted.

"Isn't that sweet? George, they've got an inside joke!" she said as George took the seat next to her.

"Precious," said George, passing a firewhisky to Bea.

"Cheers." Bea clinked her glass with George's. She chucked one of the folded blankets at me. "Here. Rochelle had the sense to bring a stack of these down."

"Thanks." I tucked the blanket over my lap, grateful for the extra warmth.

"You're not going to share?" asked Fred, pulling his face into an exaggerated pout.

"I'll consider it," I said. "It's really more of a lap robe, though. Bit small for two people."

"Or a bit  _cozy_  for two people," said Bea, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

" _Bea_."

"What if I bring you a drink?" said Fred.

"That would be a point in your favor," I conceded.

"Excellent. What would you like?"

"Just bring me whatever you're having."

"Will do." He stood and wended his way through the crowd.

"Well, how are you feeling about all this?" asked Bea, gesturing to the bonfire and party at large. "Have you come to your senses?"

"I'm quite sensible," I said, arching an eyebrow. "In fact, I seem to recall that you've listed this quality as an obstacle to my living a fulfilled life."

"You are a bit of an enigma in that sense." Bea turned to George. "She was quite nervous about all this. Not much of a rule breaker, our Charlotte."

"Fred's trying to break her of that habit," said George, giving me a quick wink. "He's got a long term strategic plan."

"Long term?" said Bea with a sly grin. She gasped and clapped her hands together. "Do you think that we're going to have our house-elf wedding after all?"

"Why is it that you two are always here to discuss my personal life?"

"Well, with you two being off on dates all the time, we got to do  _something_ ," said Bea.

"Turns out, we haven't got many hobbies," shrugged George with a smile. "We're thinking about getting matching jumpers as well."

"Charlotte!" said a familiar voice.

It was Aidan.

On went the mask. "Aidan. Hi."

He seemed genuinely pleased to see me. His smile, I noticed, had not become less charming since the last time I'd made the effort to look.

"Didn't expect to see you here," he said, taking the seat next to me.

I suddenly felt self-conscious. Anxiety hadn't quite loosened its grip on my ribs.

"Oh, well…" I managed a short laugh. "Just…expanding my horizons."

"Spiffing." He grinned. "Listen, I've been meaning to ask you—have you started on McGonagall's essay yet?"

"Yeah." I'd finished it actually, but the fact that you'd finished your homework early didn't seem like the sort of thing you ought to mention at a party, particularly if you are trying to convince people that you are not frightfully boring and responsible.

"Brilliant. Listen, I was wondering if you might be able to help Genevieve," he said.

My smile suddenly felt like it had been wound taut like a clock spring.

"She's quite clever, Genevieve," said Aidan, blissfully oblivious to the drama that was playing out in my head. "But she's a bit hopeless with theory and the like and I'm afraid I'm not a very good teacher." He flashed that winning smile and something shattered in the vicinity of my heart. "You've always been such a brilliant tutor—I got through fifth year Herbology because of you—and I thought you might be able to help."

My clockwork face sprung into motion, conjuring up a smile that almost reached my eyes. "Of course. I'd be happy to."

" _There_  you are." As though this interaction could not get any worse, Genevieve had arrived. She placed a gloved hand on the back of Aidan's neck and curled her fingers in his hair in a casually intimate sort of gesture that wound my clockwork smile even tighter. "Garrett is looking for you. Something about a card game, I think. Firewhisky is involved." Her eyes landed on me and she smiled. "Hello Charlotte, I didn't expect to see you here."

"Oh, well, you know…" I shrugged. "I thought it might be fun."

"Well, good!" said Genevieve, really seeming to mean it. I wanted to like her. I did like her—she was perfectly pleasant. It was just a rather difficult situation.

"I asked Charlotte about that Transfiguration essay," said Aidan.

That as well. That also made it difficult.

Genevieve blushed prettily. "Oh, Aidan, you didn't."

"What? I told you, there's no better tutor than Charlotte Lewis," he said, flashing that winning smile at me once again.

"I'm sorry," said Genevieve, looking rather embarrassed. "Once he gets an idea in his head, he's hopelessly focused."

"Oh, no need to apologize. I'm happy to help," I said, trying my best to look like I meant it. And I did—I didn't mind helping. I just minded the tautness in my smile, the ache in my chest, her fingers in his hair.

Genevieve for her part seemed to believe my performance. "Really? I don't want to be too much trouble—"

"No, really," I said. "It's no trouble at all."

Genevieve smiled. "Well, I would be very grateful. I'm a bit lost with this assignment. I'll speak with you later about setting up a time, yeah? A party really isn't the place for this sort of thing." She directed this last sentence at Adam.

"What? I thought it was rather thoughtful," said Aidan.

Genevieve rolled her eyes, mouthing the word "Ravenclaw" at me.

"All right, Kilbourne, you've taken my seat and I'm afraid we're going to have to duel for it." Fred was back with two firewhiskys in hand. He passed one to me.

Aidan grinned and stood. "Just needed to have a quick word with Charlotte."

"He's nattering at her about  _homework_ ," supplied Genevieve, rolling her eyes.

"It was one question," said Aidan.

" _At a party_ ," said Genevieve, poking him in the chest with each syllable. He grinned and captured her hand in his, threading his fingers with hers. Fred caught my eye as he sat down beside me.

"Homework at a party?" he tutted, bumping his shoulder against mine. I leaned into him, grateful for the extra warmth, the tacit understanding between us, the arm that went around my shoulder. "I'll have to throw you out if this continues."

"Charlotte's the innocent one," said Genevieve. "And she has the patience of a saint." She eyed Fred's arm round my shoulder and gave a small, soft smile. "You be good to her, Weasley."

"Will do," said Fred as Aidan and Genevieve departed. "Patience of a saint?" he said to me as soon as they were out of earshot.

"He was asking her to help Genevieve with a Transfiguration essay," said Bea.

"That might actually be worse than asking a homework question at a party," said George.

"It's fine," I said, not really meaning it. "No harm done."

Fred squeezed my shoulder.

"So tell me, Charlotte," said George, "is this bonfire party everything you ever hoped and dreamed it would be?"

"Well, she's got firewhisky, a blanket, and a beautiful starry evening," said Bea. "That's practically a recipe for sex."

" _Bea_."

"What? It's true," said Bea.

"It is," said George, shaking his head. "I'm not sure how I feel about this. It's only your second date and you're conspiring to steal Fred's innocence."

"Have you noticed her ears go all pink when someone mentions sex?" said Fred, tweaking one of the ears in question.

"You're supposed to be on  _my_  side," I told him, swatting his hand away.

"I am, I only mentioned it because it's so charming." He attempted to pinch my cheeks and I swatted him away again.

"Bea, have you not had the talk with her?" asked George.

"You know, this is supposed to be a date," I said pointedly. "Those are traditionally between two people, not two people accompanied by a brother and a mad best friend."

"We're chaperones," said George. He gestured to Fred, who was surreptitiously trying to scoot his legs under the blanket. "Clearly you need us."

"D'you think now's a good time to discuss their intentions with one another?" Bea asked George.

"Now is not a good time," I said. "Or ever, really."

"I think we've got to," said George, ignoring me. "It's our responsibility as chaperones. Let me get my notebook."

"You did not bring a notebook."

He had a notebook. Of course he brought a notebook.

Fortunately, the moment was shortly interrupted by a deus ex machina.

Unfortunately, it was a deus ex machina in the form of something equally embarrassing.

The radio from the Gryffindor common room was an ancient piece of equipment that had been there for as long as anyone could remember. It worked well enough, but it was a bit quirky and sometimes picked up Muggle radio stations instead of whatever you were actually looking for. No one bothered fixing it because it was more charming than anything else and Muggle radio was actually decent, with the exception of most songs that mentioned magic, which were usually a bit silly.  _Do you believe in magic?_ Honestly.

But the song that was crackling over the speakers now was not about magic. It was about sex. And it was a song that I knew really, really well.

"Oh no," I said, watching Bea's eyes light up with glee that verged on mania.

"Oh  _yes_." She leapt to her feet and waved her wand, turning up the volume to full.

"What's going on?" asked Fred.

"Have you ever listened to the same song over and over on repeat?"

He shrugged. "Sure, I suppose."

"Did you do that to the point where you also choreographed a really convincing lip syncing and dance routine?"

"No…" He looked puzzled for a moment, before a combination of comprehension and pure delight dawned on his face.

"Exactly."

Bea has a particular blend of confidence and commitment that enables her to do things like get up in front of an entire party and lip sync and have it go well. For this particular song, there was also the added incongruity of Bea herself—a petite girl who looks very wholesome and sweet—and the lyrics of the song, which were clearly and explicitly about sex. Her first pelvic thrust caused Lee Jordan to convulse with laughter and George to nearly choke on his firewhisky.

We locked eyes and she pointed at me.

"No."

She was nodding and sauntering toward me.

"No."

"Oh, you  _have_  to," said Fred.

"No."

"Go on.  _Have fun_ ," he whispered into my ear.

Bea clasped my right hand in hers and pulled me forward as Fred simultaneously placed his hands on my lower back and pushed, which launched me into a forward leap.

Bea's eyes were sparkling with laughter, but there was also encouragement, a look that said  _come on, trust me_.

 _Have fun_.

I took a deep breath. Confidence and commitment. That was all it took. I could do that.

I landed on my feet.

The words and the movement came as naturally as they had during the lazy days of summer when Bea and I had spent hours crafting this routine in her garden. Never mind that it's January and we're miles away from Bea's garden; never mind that it's our classmates who are looking at me instead of the blackbirds roosting in the magnolia tree—if I didn't think about it too much, perhaps I could fool myself into thinking that I was hidden behind the safety of a garden wall, my hair soaked with sunshine.

"Get it, Charlotte!" whooped a voice from the crowd.

I won't say that this represented a fundamental change in the way that people thought about me. When it was over, I wasn't suddenly the most popular student at the party but the gazes that followed me around the bonfire seemed a little less critical. Maybe they softened a bit, maybe they settled into something more along the lines of pleasantly surprised. Maybe I imagined it entirely—it's not like anyone really said much about it to me.

Well, one person did.

"Charlotte." Fred was waiting for me when I returned with Bea at the end of the song, pink-cheeked and slightly breathless. He took my face in his hands and kissed me square on the lips. "That was brilliant."

"I'm not sure that I would go that far," I said.

"No, really," said Fred, his hands still cupping my cheeks. "You were delightful. I'm proud of you.  _Genuinely_."

Something still and unspoken passed between us—a sweet sort of thing that I couldn't quite put a name to. That prickling flush crept to the base of my throat again.

"Thanks, Fred," I said quietly.

He smiled. "You're quite welcome."

But suddenly it was gone and things seemed the way they always did and I couldn't quite articulate what it was that had felt so different. At the time, I dismissed it as a side effect of the late hour and the heady rush of the party and the smell of smoke and firewhisky clinging to my clothes.

This is another point when I ought to have known better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to pop in to say that the lip syncing bit was almost entirely inspired by Alison Brie's performance of "Shoop" on Celebrity Lip Sync Battle. It's on YouTube if you feel compelled to watch it. I'm worried it reads a little cheesy, but that's up to you to decide.


	7. Sunset

The bonfire party broke up at half past three in the morning. Sneaking back into Hogwarts proved to be a good deal less worrisome than sneaking out, largely because my senses were pleasantly dulled by the heady combination of firewhisky, sleepiness, and heat from the bonfire. Fred and I crept back to Gryffindor Tower ahead of the rest of the group, conspicuously lingering near the foot of the dormitory stairs to say goodnight.

"Was it a non-disappointing, illicit bonfire party?" he asked quietly.

"Best I've ever been to," I said, leaning back against the wall. "Ten out of ten. Simply stunning."

"Excellent. Like I said, third date we'll break into Gringotts. Start practicing your getaway." The portrait door squeaked open and he took a step closer to me. "Come on, Lewis, pretend you like me," he whispered with a conspiratorial smile as his hands settled on my waist, thumbs almost grazing the tops of my hipbones. I brought my hands to his shoulders, suddenly grateful for the half dark of the common room obscuring the blush that I could feel blooming on my cheeks. I heard footsteps and muffled giggling as people made their way up the stairs.

"You know, we could do something normal," I whispered. "These are fake dates, Weasley, you needn't pull out all the stops."

He grinned at me, our faces inches apart. "Don't be daft, Lewis. You are a woman of discerning taste. It's only proper that I pull out all the stops for our fake dates."

"I imagine it would be better for my stress levels if you only put in half the effort—you know, maybe petty theft and not a proper bank robbery."

Fred chuckled and his expression softened into something more serious. "Seriously—I do hope you had a nice time. I know it was a lot."

There was something about the sweetness of statement and the look on his face that made me suddenly aware of the small distance between us and the fact that he smelled faintly of oranges and smoke from the fire.

"It was lovely," I said quietly, really meaning it. "And I—I think it was good for me. Don't tell Bea I said that or I'll never hear the end of it."

"My lips are sealed."

"You talk far too much for that to ever be true."

"Cheeky." His mouth crooked upward in a wry sort of half-smile. "I reckon we ought to end this one though—you look like you're about to fall asleep on your feet."

"Only a little. I'm not yet accustomed to these late night adventures."

"We'll have to work on that. But it's been a pleasure as always."

"Likewise."

"I'll speak with you soon about the next one, yeah?"

"Excellent."

His eyes strayed to my lips for just a moment. "Ready for the finale?"

Still feeling a little bold from the firewhisky, I pulled him toward me and kissed him.

"Lewis, you minx," he mumbled against my lips, laughing.

I pulled back long enough to say, "Weasley, you talk too much."

He gave a muffled chuckle but took the hint and applied his mouth to quieter pursuits. He tasted of firewhisky and citrus, a surprisingly pleasant combination. The portrait door creaked open and I startled, pulling back a little.

"Easy," whispered Fred. I allowed myself to relax slightly, leaning back into the kiss.

"We leave them alone for five minutes and look what happens," hissed a voice. "And they said they didn't need chaperones."

"Up against the wall like a brazen hussy. Charlotte, I don't know whether I should be proud or disappointed."

Fred and I broke apart. It was George and Bea. Of course it was.

"This is hardly 'up against a wall,' I said, irritably. "I'm barely leaning on it."

"That's how it starts," tutted Bea.

"Right, the two of you can bugger off now," said Fred.

"I'm putting this in my notebook," said George, taking out the notebook in question and shaking it at us disapprovingly.

"I confiscated that!" I'd last seen the notebook around half past one, when I'd wrested it away after he suggested he would be creating some "educational diagrams" to illustrate a particularly dirty joke that he'd made.

George gave a puckish grin. "You need to pay more attention to your surroundings, Madam Prefect, or some mischief maker will take advantage of you."

"Next time, I'll chuck it into the fire."

"You wound me, Charlotte," said George, clutching the notebook to his heart dramatically. "And besides, Bea was the one who took it."

I looked at her, open-mouthed. She shrugged. "I thought it would be funny. And I was right."

She and George high fived.

"What was it you were saying just a moment ago?" I asked Fred.

He furrowed his brow in mock thought. "I believe I suggested that they should bugger off," he said.

"Oh that's right! That was a brilliant idea." I looked at Bea and George. "Go away."

"Charlotte, if you aren't upstairs in fifteen minutes, I'll come down and find you," said Bea. "That's a promise, not a warning."

"Same for you, Fred," said George.

" _Goodnight_ , George," I said, pointedly. "Bea, I'll see you in a minute."

"No more than fifteen—"

" _Bea_ …"

Giggling like idiots, Bea and George retreated up the stairs to their respective dormitories.

"If this were real, I might have committed murder by now," I said, once I'd heard both doors shut.

"They are an unusually irritating combination," said Fred. His eyes lit up. "Perhaps they'll fall in love?"

I made a face. "Don't you think that would be a little too…cute? My best friend dating your twin brother? And what would happen when we end our fake relationship?"

Fred shrugged. "Stranger things have happened."

"I suppose."

There was a beat of silence and again, I became extremely aware of the fact that his face was awfully close to mine and the taste of firewhisky and oranges was still on my tongue

"Well." He looked at his watch. "Bea's upstairs with a stopwatch and there are still more people who'll be coming back in. Shall we give it another go?"

I felt a blush rise to my cheeks, though I wasn't really sure why.

"Might as well."

"Right."

His mouth met mine as he pulled me back toward him. My fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck and I found myself relaxing again, leaning back against the wall. A few moments later when the portrait door swung open, I barely jumped. In fact, I had tuned just about everything out when a low whistle brought me slamming back to reality. Fred lifted his head enough for me to see that it was Lee, hand-in-hand with Angelina.

They were a study in contrasts at that particular moment: Lee, utterly oblivious to the complicated baggage that came with his new relationship, was doing an exaggerated silent cheer for Fred. Angelina was a model of stoicism, save for her eyes, which glinted with some unreadable emotion.

"Git," said Fred to Lee. His voice was cheerful, friendly, but there was tension in his shoulders and neck that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"Don't be out too late," said Lee.

It might have been the light, but I thought Angelina's eyebrow gave a slight twitch.

Fred made a rude gesture at Lee and swiftly turned back to me, kissing me with new intensity. He pressed me against the wall, catching my lower lip between his teeth in a way that made my breath hitch in my throat and my toes curl in my boots. His mouth was searing, his tongue tangling with mine, his hands firm on the small of my back, pressing me closer.

It was the sort of kiss that might have caused me to lose track of myself if it hadn't ended when it did.

It wasn't until their footsteps faded up the stairs that he eased back, leaning his forehead against mine, our noses touching, both us breathing a little more heavily.

"All right?" I asked quietly, my heart pounding in my chest.

His eyes were shut, his brow furrowed. After a moment, he lifted his head and opened his eyes.

"Perfect," he said, not looking like he meant it.

"He really has no idea," I said after a moment of silence.

Fred took a deep breath and shook his head. "Lee's not exactly the most observant. And I suppose I haven't been particularly forthcoming on this topic."

"Ah."

His eyes met mine and we stared at each other in the half dark of the common room, his hands still on the small of my back, mine still buried in his hair, my heart still pounding from that kiss. That strange sense of intimacy prickled at the base of my throat in a familiar, but not uncomfortable way.

"Thanks, Charlotte," said Fred after a moment.

"For what?"

He shrugged. "For being here, I suppose. It…makes this whole thing a little less lonely, you know?"

It was a startling and rather vulnerable sort of admission that I never really expected to hear from Fred Weasley, king of confidence and lord of fun.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I know what you mean."

Fred held my gaze for a moment longer. He leaned in and kissed me very softly on the lips.

"Goodnight, Charlotte."

"Goodnight, Fred."

* * *

In the aftermath of the bonfire party, I'd almost forgotten about the promise I'd made to Genevieve.

"Charlotte!"

I looked up from my porridge and found Genevieve sliding into the seat next to me at breakfast the following morning. Her honey colored hair was still damp from the shower and she smelled faintly of lavender. With her easy smile and lavender scented hair, it was no wonder she'd struck Aidan's fancy. Even with only a few hours of sleep, Genevieve was pleasant and pretty; I felt like a combination of a zombie and something that had been dredged from a lake. A mixture of inadequacy and jealousy briefly surged through me. I took a deep breath and imagined shoving the feeling back into a box and tucking it neatly away.

"I didn't expect to see you awake so early," she said brightly.

I shrugged. "Oh, I woke up at my usual time and couldn't get back to sleep." This was mostly true—I'd woken that morning, heart pounding from a dream that I couldn't quite remember but had left me feeling unsettled and like I was longing for something I couldn't put a name to. "I'll regret it later, I'm sure."

Genevieve smiled. "I had the same problem this morning. We can commiserate together."

"Excellent, I'll pencil you in for whenever the coffee starts wearing off."

"Perfect. Listen," said Genevieve, "I wanted to have a word with you about that essay. Obviously, we can meet whenever would be best for you but I haven't got many plans this weekend, so I thought I'd see if you were available."

There was a small, spiteful part of me that had hoped that she would forget about that promise in the light of day. I hurriedly dismissed the thought.

"Assuming we're both awake enough to discuss homework, I could manage this afternoon," I said.

"Oh, that would be perfect," said Genevieve, smiling.  _Perfect_ —Genevieve used this word a lot, I was noticing. "I'd like to get this sorted just so it stops hanging over my head. Would you like to meet in the library? If we get one of the tables by the Reference Section, I can probably sneak us coffees."

"I wouldn't want to get you in trouble."

"Oh, I do it all the time," said Genevieve, smiling conspiratorially. "I've a clever trick for getting them in and out. I'll show you."

"All right. Shall we say half past three?"

"Perfect!"  _Perfect._  There it was again. "Thank you so much, Charlotte, I really do appreciate this."

"Of course. Happy to help."

With another sunny smile, Genevieve departed, leaving me to my thoughts. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Genevieve was lovely. Aidan wouldn't be there, so there would be no complicating factors. No drama. Maybe it would be fine.

Maybe.

* * *

For most of the time I spent working with Genevieve, it looked like it might be fine. Genevieve had not only brought coffee as promised, but a plate of blueberry scones. Her trick for smuggling them in was a slim notebook that when you opened it, revealed a small storage space about the size of a breadbox. The table that we chose was partly obscured by a shelf of books, so we could stealthily pick at the scones and sip coffees as long as we kept a weather eye open for Madam Pince and muffled the occasional snort or giggle with a well-placed hand or sleeve.

And despite whatever reservations I had with this arrangement, Genevieve was undeniably a pleasant person to be around. I mean, she was the sort of person who brought a plate of scones to a study session without being asked—that alone demonstrates a certain level of thoughtfulness, generosity, and all around pleasantness. She was the sort of person who was forever delighted by the company of others and believed that everyone had the potential to contribute something good.

So I suppose that's why when we finished working an hour or so later, I found myself hanging back to chat with her as we exited the library, rather than darting off to dinner.

"So," said Genevieve, her eyes dancing mischievously, "you and Fred Weasley."

I was prepared for this, I told myself. I gave a small smile and looked off to the side.

"What about me and Fred Weasley?"

"You seem quite  _friendly_ ," she said, nudging me with her elbow.

"Well, we've had a few dates," I said, feigning shyness, worrying my lower lip between my teeth.

"You're together, then," she said.

"Well, we haven't really discussed anything official," I demurred.

"Not  _yet_ ," said Genevieve. "I'm sure it will only be a matter of time, what with the way he looks at you."

"The way he looks at me? What do you mean?"

Genevieve shrugged and gave a small smile. "I dunno, I can't really describe it without sounding really overwrought." She paused and thought for a moment, squinting her eyes slightly. "Like…like he's been in the desert and you're a cold glass of water."

A laugh escaped me before I could really think about it.

"I don't know about that," I said. Last night's searing kiss aside, I hadn't seen anything from Fred that would merit  _that_  description.

"It's a bit overwrought, isn't it?" said Genevieve, wrinkling her nose. "I read too many romance novels." That small, sly smile was back. "But he does, you know. Look at you like that."

Perhaps Fred was a better actor than I'd given him credit for.

"Well, I suppose I'll have to take your word for it."

It occurred to me that the normal thing for me to do would be to inquire about Aidan. We were talking about our romantic relationships, after all. She didn't know that mine was fake or that I harbored a secret crush on Aidan. It would be normal for me to ask. I took a deep breath.

"And you and Aidan? That's going well?"

Genevieve's eyes lit up and the smile that appeared on her face was beautiful enough to nearly break my heart.

"Oh yes," she said, her eyes focusing on some far off point, "it's wonderful. Perfect, really."

 _Perfect_. There it was again.

"Well, you seem quite happy." This was of course, true. They did seem happy. Deliriously happy. That's what made all of this so difficult.

Genevieve blushed prettily. "Yeah. I am. We both are."

There was a beat of silence.

"You know, I'm glad this isn't awkward," said Genevieve. "You know. With everything that happened with you and Aidan."

I blinked, certain that I hadn't heard her correctly. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, he probably made it out to be a bigger thing than it was. He does that," she said, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "I just meant that he used to fancy you and everything."

I suddenly felt as though I were observing myself from some great distance. This wasn't me. This wasn't my life. Aidan Kilbourne had not fancied me. Clearly, this was a mistake.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Aidan fancied you. Fourth and fifth year," said Genevieve, a slight frown starting to form between her eyebrows and pull at the corners of her mouth. "Did…did you not know?"

"No. I had no idea," I said.

Genevieve paused, an incredulous laugh spilling from her lips. "Sorry—I shouldn't laugh, I just—" She laughed again, seeming at a loss for words. "This is the most ridiculous thing. He was  _convinced_  that you knew."

I was millions of miles away from my body, hurtling through space, tearing through constellations. This was not real. This could not be happening.

"No…sorry, can you explain? I'm a bit lost," I said, trying to keep my voice light. Airy. Like I didn't care. Like this was not anything more than mildly surprising.

"We were just talking about really embarrassing romantic encounters and he was going on about how he used to fancy you and he was convinced you weren't interested because all you ever did was study together. He thought that was your way of letting him down gently." She rolled her eyes, smiling like this was sort of endearing. "And really you had no idea."

"No. None. I—Aidan was always perfectly friendly." I forced a laugh, pretending I was amused by this silly story, that it wasn't grinding the shattered remains of my heart into a fine dust. "I had no idea that he fancied me at all."

Genevieve laughed again, shaking her head. "Hufflepuff's hat. It's no wonder I had to be the one to ask him to the Yule Ball. If I'd waited for him, he probably would have assumed that I was in love with Cedric Diggory or some such nonsense."

"Probably," I said, trying my best to laugh along.

"Well, now I'm worried that I've made things terribly awkward," said Genevieve, her cheeks going rather pink. "I probably shouldn't have said anything, but I genuinely thought you knew."

"Oh no, it's not awkward at all!" I lied, forcing another smile. "I'm just surprised, is all. He never gave any indication of…well, anything like that."

Genevieve looked relieved. "Good. I'd hate to be the cause of any awkwardness—especially since I started this conversation by saying that I was glad it  _wasn't_  awkward." She rolled her eyes. "Leave it to me to put my foot in my mouth in a new and inventive way."

"Don't give it another thought. Everything is fine," I said, largely to convince myself that it was.

"You're a peach, Charlotte," Genevieve said, smiling. "And please…don't mention this to Aidan. He'll be mortified."

"Oh, I won't breathe a word," I assured her. In fact, I wasn't entirely confident that I could manage to  _look_  at Aidan again, much less talk to him about something like this.

"I suppose it doesn't particularly matter after all," said Genevieve, "since both of you ended up with other people. Funny how that works sometimes, isn't it?"

"Yes, funny." Funny in the way that a textbook case of irony is probably funny to the person who isn't experiencing it.

Genevieve looked at her watch. "Goodness, I've kept you long enough. It's nearly five."

"Oh, is it really?"

"Quarter of," she said. "I should let you get on with your evening. And I want to freshen up a touch before I meet Aidan for dinner." She smiled, nudging me with her elbow. "Have you got plans with Fred?"

In truth, I didn't feel like doing much of anything other than crawling into my bed and curling into a ball for the foreseeable future.

"Not sure yet," I said. My cheeks were starting to hurt from smiling.

"Well, have a lovely evening, regardless," she said. "And thank you so much again—this was really helpful. Aidan was right—there is no better tutor at Hogwarts. I may take you up on this again sometime."

I swallowed hard. "Of course! It's no trouble at all."

"Perfect."  _Perfect._  She smiled. "Have a good night, Charlotte."

"You as well."

It wasn't until there were several floors between Genevieve and me that it occurred to me that I was going to cry.

I don't cry often and I rarely cry in front of other people. It's not that I'm bottled up or that I fear emotion or anything like that. It's just that for me, crying is an intensely private act. It is confession and revelation; it is baring parts of myself that are ugly and broken and small and sad and weak. Apart from my parents and sisters, few people have seen me cry. Not even Bea, who sometimes seems to know more about me than I do myself.

Normally, it's not that difficult to keep tears at bay. It's only when it's something big and awful that I have to concentrate, that I have to think of myself building a wall to hold back a flood of tears. Not a wall strong enough to hold forever—just for now. Just until I can get somewhere safe.

" _Charlotte_."

There was a hand at my elbow and Fred fell into step beside me, because of course he would. We seemed destined to encounter each other in this way, two shooting stars colliding with each other and forming constellations of heartbreak.

I kept walking. If I didn't keep walking, the wall would falter and I would fall apart.

"What is it?" I said, struggling to keep my voice even.

"I said your name about three times," said Fred.

"Must not have heard it," I said, shrugging.

Fred stepped in front of me, stopping me in my tracks and putting his hands on my shoulders. "What's wrong?"

I couldn't quite make eye contact. "Noth—"

"Charlotte." There was a gentle edge to his voice.

Just once, I would like to be able to tell a simple fib about the state of my emotions without having Fred Weasley suss out that I'm lying. Just once.

I could feel the words sitting heavily on the tip of my tongue, a torrent of tears behind them. "I can't talk about it."

"Can't or won't?"

"Fred, if I talk about it, I'm going to cry and I can't have a bloody breakdown in the corridors."

His eyes softened and suddenly I understood what he meant last night when he thanked me for being there with him and making things a little less lonely.

"Come on, let's get your coat," he said after a moment.

"Why?"

"We're going on a walk and I don't think your family and friends would take too kindly to you freezing to death on my watch."

I hesitated, debating whether to argue for the alternative solution of letting me crawl up to my dormitory to wallow in misery for the foreseeable future.

"Come on," said Fred quietly. "It'll be good for you. I don't want you to be by yourself."

He was right. I drew a shaky breath and nodded. "All right."

Ten minutes later, I was bundled up in my hat, coat, and gloves, and following Fred up into the stands on the Quidditch pitch. It was cold and our breaths steamed in the air.

"Why are we going here?"

"No one ever comes here when there isn't a match or practice. Or not usually, anyway," said Fred, sitting down on one of the benches. "And I reckon you could do with some privacy."

I sat down next to him, the wind whipping through my hair and biting at my cheeks.

"Are you ready to talk about it?"

I opened my mouth to say something and found that the tears that I'd thought were being kept decidedly at bay were now pricking at the corners of my eyes and forming a Quaffle-sized lump in my throat.

"Charlotte?" His eyes were soft, gentle. "You can take your time if you need to."

It was this small kindness that made me fall apart.

Fred drew me to his chest and held me as I cried, rubbing my back and resting his chin on the top of my head, my legs draped over his lap. He didn't try to quiet me or tell me it was all right: he just held me while I cried into the front of his coat, the winter wind whipping around us both.

I cried for what felt like ages. I cried for the opportunity that I didn't know I had, for all of the things that had to go wrong for it to turn out like it did. I cried for not being clever enough to read into the subtle signs and indications, I cried for not being bold enough to try anyway. I cried for Cold Shower Charlotte, forever unlucky in love.

And all the while, Fred held me, his arms wrapped around me tightly, his chin resting on top of my head.

Some time later, my shoulders finally stopped heaving and my sobbing gave way to sniffling hiccups. The sun was sinking lower into the horizon.

"Sorry," I mumbled into the front of his coat.

"Why should you be sorry?"

"I got tears all over the front of your coat. And likely some snot as well."

"What, this?" He looked at the wet spot that had bloomed on the front of his coat. "This is nothing. Besides, I'm washable."

We were both quiet for a moment, my cheek resting against his chest. I tried to match my shaky breaths to the steady beat of his heart.

"How are you feeling?"

I sniffed. "Wretched."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." I paused. "But I suppose I should. I probably should."

"Seems like the healthy thing to do."

"Probably."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The words started slowly. Genevieve's laughing admission, Aidan's requited crush, the stars aligned but also not.

"It's a stupid thing to be upset about, really," I concluded.

"It's not," said Fred.

"It's just…" I paused, searching for the words. "It's almost worse. Knowing that there was this opportunity and things might have been different if I'd been bolder." I gave a small bitter laugh. "Rather sad thing for a Gryffindor to say. 'If only I'd been bolder.'"

"You're plenty bold, Charlotte," said Fred. "You're just cautious around matters of the heart. And knowing Kilbourne, I can't imagine he provided you with much to go on."

"What do you mean?"

"Aidan's great, but he is eternally optimistic about other people's knowledge." Fred chuckled. "First year, he used to tell jokes in Latin.  _Latin_! And then he'd look at you expectantly, waiting for you to laugh."

"What does that have to do with this?"

"I think it's likely that he makes similar assumptions about feelings," said Fred. "It was obvious to him that he fancied you; therefore, it must also be obvious to you."

I shrugged. "Maybe. But maybe I should have…"

"Been a mind reader?" offered Fred.

"No…put myself out there or just…I don't know," I said. "I just feel like there's something I should have done."

"You're awfully hard on yourself, you know that?"

"I like to think of it as having high standards."

"There's high standards and then there's being hard on yourself for not meeting impossibly high standards," said Fred. "I have a feeling you fall in the latter group more often than the former."

"Probably."

"Why is that?"

"Oh, I don't know." I sighed. "Sometimes I wonder if that's something that just comes with being the youngest sibling—there's all those expectations to live up to."

Fred chuckled. "I know someone who disproves that theory and her name is Ginny Weasley."

"Really?"

"I'm fairly certain that Ginny could annihilate the very concept of insecurity through sheer force of willpower."

"Does she take on apprentices? I suspect I could learn a thing or two from her."

"I'll inquire."

I worried my lower lip between my teeth. "I do think it's difficult, though. Being the youngest. You so rarely have to be the first to try anything and I think you can get the idea that you should be able to get through everything without making the same mistakes. Or any mistakes, for that matter."

"From an outsider's perspective, Charlotte, it seems to me that you're not making very many mistakes."

"I think you're being a bit generous."

"And  _I_ think you're being hard on yourself again." I could hear the smile in his voice.

I sighed. He was right. "Fine. I'll concede that."

"I'll make a note of it."

A few moments of quiet passed.

"The funny thing is…" I said, "it's not like my parents were telling me that they expected me to do better than my sisters. They go out of their way to  _not_  compare us. Which I suppose makes all of this even more silly on my part."

Fred laughed. "I'd like your parents to speak with my mum. I think every other sentence she's said to me has been 'Why can't you be more like your brothers?'"

"I'm sorry, that sounds awful."

"Oh, it's fine," said Fred. "She doesn't do it for things that really matter—character and whatnot. Mostly, it's school related. Marks and detentions and such. I think she got a bit spoiled by Bill, Charlie, and Percy. All three made prefect, Bill and Percy were Head Boys, and Charlie was Quidditch captain."

"That's a lot."

Fred shrugged. "Honestly, it was worse dealing with the people who knew Bill, Charlie, and Percy and expected us to be like them. Mum actually sent owls warning our first year teachers, but even that didn't seem to make that much of a difference. Though Dumbledore reckons that's the only time in the entire noble history of Hogwarts that a parent has written to the faculty warning them about her children. Proudest moment of my life."

"I can only imagine."

Fred was quiet for a long time, idly tracing a series of concentric circles on my shoulder.

"I do think about it sometimes, though," he said after a moment. "Those first few weeks of term and just feeling the utterly crushing weight of all of those expectations and knowing that I had no shot at living up to them. No interest, either, for that matter. It was an awful feeling." His arms tightened around me in a hug. "I won't pretend that I have some grand advice or even good answers on how to banish that sort of thinking, but I do know you're too smart, lovely, and accomplished to deserve anything close to that."

"You'd better stop or I'm going to start crying again."

"Eh, my coat's already full of tears and snot, what's a little more?"

We were both quiet for a moment, listening to the wind whistle around us.

"Do you want to know something I haven't told you?" he said quietly after a moment. "About the Angelina thing."

"Sure."

He cleared his throat. "About a year ago, I raised the subject again, thinking maybe enough time had passed, maybe she felt differently." He paused. "I made two mistakes. The first was not letting her approach me about it."

He took a deep breath. "The second was trying to have this conversation at a party."

I winced. "Oh no."

"Oh yes." He sighed. "And of course, we'd both had a few drinks as well, so…"

"You both said some things you shouldn't," I supplied.

"Well…" He seemed to be searching for the right words. "Angelina is fairly direct, but she's still quite careful about what she says. She's…not as careful when she's had a few."

"Ah."

"So this party ended with her telling me that I lacked emotional intelligence and that was a non-starter for her. And…well, things got a bit shouty and then she stormed off and the next day we pretended it never happened. You know. Like normal, healthy people do."

"I'm sorry," I said, not really knowing what to say.

"Don't be."

There was a long moment of silence.

"She's wrong, you know," I said finally.

"What do you mean?"

"Angelina. She's wrong about you not having emotional intelligence."

"What makes you say that?"

"Fred, we have  _literally_  been sitting here for the past half hour talking about feelings."

"And?"

"And before that, you were holding me while I sobbed about my feelings. You knew immediately that I was upset. You  _always_  know when I'm upset. It's a bit maddening, actually. Here I am, this impenetrable fortress of emotions and then you come up and ring the bell like 'hello, let's chat about why you're upset' and you walk right past me because I'm so surprised that you found the doorbell in the first place."

Fred's laughter rumbled in my ear. "That has to be the most tortured metaphor I've ever heard."

"You haven't heard Bea's train-based soliloquys about our relationship, have you?"

"No, I have not and now I'm disappointed that you've kept this from me."

"Only because it's ridiculous and Bea is a maniac. I'm sure if you ask her about it, she'll be happy to enlighten you. I assure you, I will seem poetic in comparison."

"Oh, I will be asking and I'll have George take notes."

"I need to confiscate that notebook again. I have a feeling it's going to become a problem."

"We'll work out a plan."

We sat in silence for another minute.

"How are you feeling now?" he asked quietly.

"Still a bit wretched."

"I know you're upset about it now," he said, "but this thing about Kilbourne is good news. It means that our dastardly plan has a prayer of working."

"I thought our success was a certainty," I said.

"It is, but now it's even more of a certainty."

"Logically, none of that follows."

"Think about it," said Fred. "Now you know for certain that Kilbourne is interested in you. Now it's only a matter of recapturing his attention."

"I know for certain that he was interested in me  _at one point_ ," I corrected. "I suspect that has changed, given that he's seeing a different person and seems to believe that I was not interested in him to begin with."

"You don't know what he's thinking, not for sure at any rate. Do you think he'd tell Genevieve that his unrequited love for you burns forevermore in his heart?"

"I don't think any sensible person would utter those words, no."

"You're being pert, so I know you're feeling better."

"I'm getting there."

We sat in silence for a few minutes, watching as the sun sank below the treeline.

"Beautiful evening," said Fred after a while.

"It'd almost be romantic if I hadn't covered you in snot and tears," I said. "We could've gotten another fake date checked off our list."

"Tell you what," said Fred, "this can exist outside of our agreement."

"What do you mean by that?"

He shrugged. "It's just something between you and me—not anything to do with Kilbourne or Angelina."

"I'd like that," I said quietly.

"Then it's settled."

Together we watched the sun set, clinging to each other against the cold and the lengthening shadows, my cheek pressed against the steady beat of his heart.


	8. Daring and Caution

Fred and I walked into dinner late that evening, hand in hand and all eyes on us. Normally, this is the sort of thing that would make me feel incredibly self-conscious, but by that point, I was too tired, cold, and hungry to pay much mind to the eyes that lingered on us as we walked in. And I suppose there was also something about the firm grip of Fred's hand on mine that made me feel a little braver.

Aidan drew my gaze like a magnet, all tousled hair and ice blue eyes. He sat at the Ravenclaw table with his friends, Genevieve sticking out with her Hufflepuff crest and bright smile. It was hard to look at them and not feel pang of sadness, a lump in my throat, a twist of the knife—but at least it felt a little duller, a little more distant than it had earlier that afternoon. Genevieve caught my eye and smiled, looking at Fred and raising her eyebrows at me, as if to say, "I told you so." I smiled back and shrugged, trying not to look like I was secretly longing for the boy sitting next to her.

I pulled my eyes away before Aidan got the chance to look up. Seeing them together wasn't as painful as it could have been, but I wasn't quite ready to meet Aidan's gaze. Not yet.

I looked toward the Gryffindor table, searching for Bea. I found her, sitting across from George, listening with a sort of half-smile as he told what seemed to be a very elaborate story. She'd set her bag on the seat next to her and she moved it to the floor when she saw me approaching.

"You're a peach," I said, sitting down next to her as Fred took the seat across from me.

Her eyes flickered from Fred to me, taking in our winter coats and hats. Her lips curled up into a smile that was almost foxlike in its slyness. "And  _where_  have you been?"

"On a walk," I said, ladling a serving of beef barley soup into my bowl, letting the steam warm my fingers, and hoping that was going to be the end of her questioning.

This was, of course, foolish of me.

"In  _this_  weather?" She frowned, her gaze shifting to Fred. "Did she do something to upset you?"

"It was  _quite_  romantic, I'll have you know," said Fred, passing me a basket of rolls.

"She doesn't need to know," I said, taking a roll and tearing into quarters. I dipped a piece in my soup and took a bite. "And anyway, it's fine outside, just a bit windy."

"Twenty-third of January," said George, making a careful note in that damnable notebook. "Arrived late to dinner, claimed to have been on a walk." His eyes flicked up to me. His expression was dead serious, but he couldn't quite hide the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Highly irregular."

"George Weasley," I said, pointing at him with my spoon, "if we were not in full view of the entire school, I would use a Fire Making Spell on that notebook."

"Subject C  _highly_  aggressive," said Bea, tapping her chin thoughtfully as she looked at me. She turned to George. "Analyst Pierce presents theory of outdoor sexual adventures."

I elbowed her in the ribs. " _Bea_."

"Note the physical aggression," she said to George as he made additional notes.

"Her ears are turning pink," noted Fred with a crooked half-smile.

"Fascinating," said George, writing furiously.

I wonder if sixth year is too late to change houses. Or friends. Maybe schools, while I'm at it.

"Well," said Bea, flashing me a smile that seemed to be conciliatory, "it seems things are going well for you two if this is your second date in less than twenty-four hours." Her gaze shifted sharply to Fred. "Although I'm quite disappointed that you did not discuss this with me ahead of time, Fred. Charlotte is quite busy and as her social secretary, I can't very well have her gallivanting off with boys all the time."

"I beg your pardon, there was absolutely  _no_  gallivanting," said Fred. "It was very dignified and serious."

"Even so," said Bea, folding her hands on the table and arching an eyebrow, "this is quite a breach of protocol. You really must clear these things with me."

"Strike that," I said through a mouthful of bread. "I'm quite capable of managing my own schedule."

"Do you see this?" said Bea to Fred and George, gesturing at me. "I save her a seat. I manage her social calendar at no charge. And she treats me like this."

"I'd like to point out that one of those things is something I told you not to do," I said pointedly.

"I think it's time to change the subject," said Fred, his eyes twinkling in a way that suggested I was not going to be fond of the topic he chose next. "Bea, I've been told there's an incredible train metaphor that Charlotte has been keeping from me all this time."

Bea's eyes lit up like Christmas. "Fred, I'm so glad you asked."

* * *

That Monday, Fred caught me by the elbow as I was leaving Charms with Bea.

"Can I walk you up to the common room?" he asked. If I didn't know better, I would have thought he was flirting, what with his low voice and slow smile that seemed to imply a private joke. I looked at Bea and she rolled her eyes, smiling.

"Oh, go  _on_ , I've got to go to the library anyway." She winked and jogged ahead to catch up with George, linking her arm in his and standing up on her tiptoes to whisper something in his ear. He looked back and waggled his eyebrows at us, so I imagine it was something untoward.

"Come on," said Fred, taking my hand and twining his fingers with mine and leading me off the down a corridor that was not quite as well-traveled. "We'll take the scenic route—I've got two things I want to speak with you about."

I hitched my bag up higher on my shoulder as we passed a series of portraits of cats dressed in costumes of the Elizabethan era. An orange tomcat dressed as Henry VIII eyed us while a group of Scottish folds dressed as peasants meowed plaintively.

"So first off—" We turned a corner and Fred stopped and caught both of my hands in his, his voice lowering slightly, turning a little gentler, a little more serious, his eyes scanning my face. "—how are you feeling?"

My heart suddenly felt quite full in the way that it does when someone does something unexpected and kind for you.

"You're sweet to ask," I said, squeezing his hands. "I'm all right. Still sad. But better, I think. I can think about it without turning into a disaster, at any rate."

"You've put on a brave face," he said quietly, his thumbs running absently over my knuckles. "Nobody would be able to tell, not from looking at you."

A short, choked sort of laugh escaped me. "I suppose that's what got me into this in the first place. Being utterly unreadable."

Fred suddenly pulled me to him in a tight hug. "You're being hard on yourself again," he said, planting a quick, chaste kiss on the top of my head. "I told you before, I don't think it was you."

I sighed, closing my eyes and pressing my cheek against the soft fabric of his school sweater. "All right."

He gave me a quick squeeze and let me go, taking my hand back into his. "You know you can talk to me if you need to. You know where to find me."

I squeezed his hand. "I know. Thanks, Fred."

"You're quite welcome, Charlotte."

We walked quietly for a moment. "So," I said finally, "what was the second thing you wanted to speak with me about?"

"Ah yes." He looked me and grinned. "Saturday?"

I breathed a long sigh. "Weasley, is our fake romance already so dead that you can't be bothered to use verbs when you ask me on a date?"

He fell to his knees, clasping both of my hands in his. "Never. My fake love for you is an eternal fake spring forever in my heart."

"Oh good, I was worried."

He dramatically kissed both of my hands and leapt to his feet, brushing the dust from his pants. "Never doubt my fake feelings again." He slipped his hand into mine.

"I almost hate to ask," I said, eying him skeptically, "but what did you have in mind for Saturday?"

"Well." He gave me a devious look. "It depends on how daring you'd like to be."

"You know my personal motto—'daring but anxious.'"

"'Daring and  _undeservedly_  anxious," corrected Fred.

"I'll take that into consideration before I commission the crests." I frowned. "I wonder what the proper Latin for that would be?  _Audacis at sollicitis_? That doesn't sound quite right."

Fred chuckled. "We need to get you out more."

"Latin is extremely useful, Weasley," I said, poking him in the stomach with my forefinger. "Loads of  _spells_  use Latin, you know."

He grinned, loosening the tie on his uniform. "Well, I'm ruling out a Latin lesson for Saturday. What are your ideas?"

I thought for a moment, worrying my lower lip between my teeth. "You're not going to like this," I said finally, "but it's a good idea."

"Try me."

"We could study."

Fred looked at me though he'd taken an unexpected bite out of a lemon. "Lewis. How is it that you've managed to come up with something even worse than  _Latin lessons_?"

"Because I'm brilliant and you don't appreciate me?" I said, giving him a wide smile.

"Oh, this is a  _brilliant_  idea now?"

"Yes," I said primly, "and I'm going to explain it to you even though you're being an insufferable prat about it."

"Brilliant and magnanimous," said Fred, raising his eyebrows. "All right, let's hear your brilliant and underappreciated idea."

"First off," I said, looking at him sternly, "people study together  _all the time_. Don't pretend you haven't seen people all cuddled up together in the common room with their textbooks and rewarding correct answers with kisses. It's  _nauseating_."

Fred whistled. "Nauseating. So far, you're making a compelling argument."

"You took me to Madam Puddifoot's so I don't think you can turn down something based on nausea alone," I said archly.

"All right, that's fair. So fine. Other people do it. What else?"

"Second reason: I do actually have to study for that Charms exam that's coming up."

"Fair enough."

"Third reason: this will be impactful."

"Intriguing. Enlighten me."

"You are not exactly known for your academic focus."

"That's quite charitable of you."

"You have cultivated a reputation for not liking studying. For avoiding it. You do the bare minimum of what's required and no more."

"Slightly less charitable…"

"So," I said, ignoring him, " _because_  you have established this very particular reputation, voluntarily studying on a Saturday night will strike people as quite unusual. And if you were to do that for a girl…well, that might catch some attention as well."

Fred let out a short sigh and looked at me with a wry and reluctant smile. "Lewis, you clever minx, you're right."

I smirked. "I told you I was brilliant and you didn't appreciate me."

He bumped his shoulder against mine. "Don't get big-headed, there's only room for one of us in this fake relationship."

"I'll keep an eye on it."

"I do have an objection to your brilliant plan, though," he said. "Or a concern, really."

I glanced heavenward. "Why am I not surprised?"

"By my count, this will be our third fake date," said Fred, cheerfully ignoring my comment. "If you examine these dates more closely, you'll start to see a particular pattern emerge, along with a related deficiency."

It sounded as though Fred had devoted a fair amount of thought to this. Typically, when he's devoted a lot of thought to something, that's an indication that he's trying to trick you into agreeing to something. Odds are, that something is not a great idea, which is why he's trying to trick you in the first place.

"What's that?" I said, somewhat cautiously.

"First date: Hogsmeade. Standard Hogwarts date, no surprises there."

"Right…"

"Second date: non-disappointing illicit midnight bonfire party. Non-standard, strictly against school rules, very exciting."

"Yes."

"Third date: studying." He raised an eyebrow. "Do you see where I'm going with this?"

"Not particularly."

"Two thirds of our fake dates have been fairly standard and expected. This cannot continue."

I sighed. This should be good. "And why is that a problem?"

"I pride myself on a certain quality of romantic experience. This standard applies even in the manufactured situation that we find ourselves in." He looked at me knowingly.

"Meaning?"

"We need to maintain an even distribution between standard and non-standard dates in order to ensure that my reputation as a romantic renegade stays intact."

"If you can find one person who describes you as a romantic renegade, I'll eat my hat."

"In the interest of fairness," he continued, ignoring me, "I'll propose a fifty-fifty split: every other date we'll do something exciting and possibly against school rules."

"How exciting are we talking about?" I asked. These sorts of questions were imperative when dealing with either Fred or George. "There are some lines that I'm not willing to cross, even in the name of our fake relationship."

"Nothing truly dangerous. Nor anything that would get us expelled." He paused for a beat. "Probably."

"That's reassuring," I said dryly.

"Having now had several years of rule breaking under my belt, I can assure you that I have a very fine-tuned sense of what boundaries can be pushed and what should be left alone. That said, there are some faculty members who have made it their life's mission to see me removed from these hallowed halls, so I can't make any guarantees."

I thought for a moment. It was one thing to occasionally go to an illicit midnight bonfire party—it was another to make a regular commitment to that sort of thing. I kept telling myself that I was done being careful, but I was finding that careful was a difficult habit to shake. It was comfortable and predictable.

"It would probably be good for you," added Fred.

"I mean…maybe," I conceded. "It's just…well, you saw me before the bonfire party. I was a bit of a wreck. It's just difficult for me to feel anything but terrified about that sort of thing, you know?"

He squeezed my hand. "It does get easier with practice."

"What makes you say that?"

"Charlotte, it may shock you to hear this, but I was not always the brave, handsome young man with the devil-may-care attitude that you see before you today."

"And what, pray tell, does that mean?"

"I used to get nervous," he said shrugging. "Not as much as you, mind, but enough to notice it. It got easier over time."

I thought about that carefully for a moment. "Well, suppose I were to agree to this. Presumably, a lot of these activities require a certain amount of secrecy and consequently wouldn't be in full view of anyone. So how does that help establish our fake relationship?"

Fred's smile grew positively wicked. "Lewis, we'll be disappearing for hours at a time.  _Together_.  _Alone_. That is  _exactly_  aligned with our purposes."

"Well, when you put it that way…"

We were walking through the Fat Lady's corridor now and Fred's gaze drifted to the series of stone arches that framed each window. "Speaking of…" He ducked under one of the arches, pulling me with him.

I sighed. "You're incorrigible, Fred Weasley."

" _I_  am merely holding up my end of our arrangement," he said, leaning against the wall of the arch, pulling me toward him. "Besides," he said with a slow smile, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, "it's not like you're not enjoying yourself."

"Your confidence is truly astonishing," I said, rolling my eyes.

"I'm confident because I can prove it," he said, raising an eyebrow. He slid his hand down, splaying his fingers on the back of my neck, thumb skimming my pulse point.

I knew what his answer would be, but still I asked: "How?"

He chuckled. "Lewis, don't be thick."

He leaned forward and kissed me, his tongue easily parting my lips. I kissed him back hesitantly, reluctant to give him any indication of enthusiasm that he would use to assert that he was in fact right. Oddly, my reserve seemed to provide him with motivation: he deepened the kiss, tilting my head back, stroking and coaxing my lips and tongue to reciprocate.

Eventually, my resolve weakened and I abandoned my hesitation, leaning into him and kissing him back with the same fervor, my hands sliding up to his shoulders, tangling in his hair.

It was at this point—when I'd given in fully—that he made his move. He caught my lower lip gently between his teeth, the way he had the other night when Angelina and Lee had come upon us in the common room. And just like the other night, my body reacted the same way: my breath hitched in my throat and my toes curled in my shoes.

He leaned back slightly, releasing my lip. "Told you," he said, his lips still so close that they brushed against mine.

"I'm admitting nothing," I said as levelly as I could.

"You and I both heard that delightful little sigh," he said. "Admit it."

"No."

He grinned. "Challenge accepted."

He tilted my head back and kissed me again. I made another attempt to be tentative and hesitant, which again ended predictably with my tongue tangling with his. A thought occurred to me as I leaned in to him. I could preempt him perhaps. After a moment's hesitation, I captured his lower lip between my teeth. He didn't even attempt to hide his sharp intake of breath, his hands sliding to my waist. I did it again for good measure and his hands tightened on my waist, eliminating whatever distance was left between the two of us.

I pulled back slightly to smirk.

"See, Lewis," said Fred. " _I'm_  a big enough person to admit that I quite enjoyed that. Will you not afford me the same courtesy?"

I pretended to think for a moment. "No," I said, smiling. My heart was beating hard against my ribs and I felt a little lightheaded, though I wasn't entirely sure why.

A smile curled across his lips. "I've a theory."

"Oh, this should be good."

"Now, it's quite clear that you react very strongly to a particular element of kissing." His eyes strayed toward my lips. "So I suspect you'll react similarly to this…"

He kissed along my jawline, lingering over the pulse point in my neck, his tongue flicking against the delicate skin there. Initially, I thought I might be in the clear—it was nice, but not to the degree that it made my toes curl.

Then his lips went to my earlobe and I couldn't help my sharp inhale or my fingernails digging into his shoulders.

"As I suspected," he mumbled against my ear, chuckling. "Are you going to admit it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said with as much bravado as I could muster.

His lips were back on my earlobe, his tongue skimming the curve, before gently catching it between his teeth. Unbidden, a small "oh" escaped my lips and my back arched.

It was this contact that brought me back to my senses. As much kissing as we'd done, we hadn't been  _that_  intimate, not to the level where I was arching my back against him, pushing my hips against his.

"Admit it," said Fred into my ear.

"All right. Fine," I said, flushing profusely and straightening up. "You were right."

He pulled away and looked at me. If he had noticed that unexpected contact, he certainly wasn't showing it—he wore the same sort of insufferable smile that he always had when he was right, as though we'd made a wager on a Quidditch match or a game of Gobstones. "Right about what?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, but I'd like you to say it," he said. "It's not often that you're wrong and I'm right and I'd like to get the full experience."

"Fine," I said, glaring. "You were right. I enjoyed that."

"You're blushing," he said, his smile growing wider.

"Fred, allow me to state for the record that I'm going to kiss you and it is for the express purpose of shutting you up."

I leaned in and kissed him, trying to be slow and sweet, to avoid the fervor that had gripped me earlier. I felt him smile against my mouth, but he didn't try to say anything—he just kissed me back, soft and sweet.

That said, it was probably good that we were interrupted when we were.

"Oh, for Godric's sake—the two of you! If you're not up against one wall, it's another."

I pulled away from Fred to find Bea and George standing in front of the arch, several other Gryffindors passing by. This was also an effective method for returning my brain to the more rational world.

"You know, for someone who has previously encouraged me to have fun and date boys, you are certainly keen on interrupting me," I said, putting a hand on my hip and trying to hide my embarrassment with a smirk and light irritation.

"Exactly," said Bea, raising her eyebrows, "you need to find some places where you  _won't_  be interrupted by busybodies like me. In fact, perhaps I  _know_  of some places that meet that description and you should  _ask_  me about them…"

"I'd be interested in seeing those notes," said George.

She turned on George, eyes blazing. "George Weasley, consider yourself lucky that I'm even speaking to you, let alone showing you my secret snogging spots."

I knew a distraction when I saw one. "What happened?" I said, stepping out of the arch, pulling Fred along by the hand. "Weren't you going to the library?"

"I was," said Bea, shooting a dark look at George. " _Somebody_  got me kicked out."

"It was me, in case you missed the subtext," said George, grinning and not looking at all sorry.

"He put a fake doxy in my bag," said Bea, holding out the item in question. Some of its mechanical clockwork was exposed and its wings were bent out of shape, though they were still flapping feebly. "Scared the life out of me. I'll be lucky if Madam Pince lets me back in by the end of the school year."

"To be fair," said George, "it was very funny. She sounds exactly like a teakettle when she screams. It's uncanny."

Bea shoved him as we walked into the common room. "I will never, ever, ever forgive you."

"Oh you will," said George. "I don't think you're even properly mad at me."

Bea shot him a look that could wither Devil's Snare; George looked completely unperturbed and merely winked at her. Lee looked up from a piece of parchment he was studying in front of the fire; he waved at Fred and George and motioned for them to join him.

"I'll see you," said Fred, pecking me briefly on the lips. He looked at me knowingly. "I'm glad we were able to settle that debate to the satisfaction of both parties."

"Ooh, a  _debate_ ," said Bea, waggling her eyebrows as spots of heat rose in my cheeks. "That sounds like a code word for something sexy. George, put that in your notebook—" Her expression quickly shifted to a frown. "Never mind, George, I'm mad at you."

"No, you aren't," said George cheerfully. "See you later."

"You won't!" said Bea. "Because I'm mad at you!"

"You're not mad at him, are you?" I asked as soon as George was out of earshot.

"I'm annoyed with him," she said, sighing. "It's difficult to be mad at George. Even when he's being a git, he's a charming git. And of course he bloody  _knows_  it." She took a seat in her usual chair. "Come on, I want to hear all about what I just walked in on."

"What about it?" I said as I sat down. "It was just snogging."

"Judging from the color in your cheeks, things were…escalating," she said, quirking an eyebrow.

I sighed. "Bea, we're not even official yet."

"Doesn't mean things can't progress," she said, the innuendo very clear in her voice.

At the time, I rolled my eyes and made some comment about how she was being ridiculous and reading far too much into something that was still brand new. But later, when I thought about it in the quiet of the dormitory as I tried to sleep, I had to acknowledge that there was some truth to this idea of escalation. The kissing that we'd done before was relatively straightforward; what had happened today was different, more complex. It was the sort of kissing that caused you to lose track of yourself, to wonder what it would feel like to press your palms against his chest without the barrier of his school shirt and sweater or what it would feel like if his hands slid under the hem of your sweater to skim the small of your back and the curve of your hips.

It was the sort of kissing that was a monumentally bad idea, even worse than our fake relationship plot was to begin with. We hadn't even made our fake relationship official. We were interested in different people. This was clearly a case of teenage hormones run amok; I resolved to be more mindful in the future. I  _had_  to be more mindful in the future.

You've probably guessed that I wasn't as mindful as I should have been and you've probably worked out that there's a point when the lines between fake and real start to become a bit blurry for me. I didn't know it yet, but the seeds for that were planted there in that hall while I kissed Fred and found myself in a position where I was struggling not to lose myself.

But I'm getting ahead of the story. That's a ways off yet.


	9. By Torchlight and Firelight

Angelina and I had always been more like friendly, but distant acquaintances than proper roommates. We were part of different social circles—I had Bea, she had Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell—and our interests never really seemed to align in ways that invited conversation. She was a Quidditch champion; I could reliably identify a Quaffle. I read Muggle mysteries and historical fiction; she read poetry and romance novels. Our conversations were limited to “How are you?” and “Have you started that Potions essay? I think Snape is trying to kill us” and “Have you seen my green jumper?” There was nothing deeper, nothing more substantive—and there wasn’t anything wrong with that.

But my fake relationship with Fred created an awkward overlap where none had previously existed. It was, of course, a manufactured relationship and I had no reason to be upset about Fred’s interest (past or present) in Angelina, but she didn’t know any of that. I treaded carefully in anticipation of some sort of disruption, some change, some acknowledgment of the awkward situation that we now found ourselves in. But for all of my bated breath and tiptoeing around the obvious, Angelina seemed unaffected. Nothing changed—our “hellos” and “how are yous” were just as pleasant, there did not seem to be any animosity or subtext in our queries about homework. After several weeks of this, I began to wonder if maybe I had overthought it.

And then I overheard her talking to Alicia on the Friday immediately preceding my third fake date with Fred.

I’d spent that morning developing the sort of raging headache that makes you wish for the quiet release of death. The prospect of sitting through Defense Against the Dart Arts and Professor Moody’s surprise declarations of “ _CONSTANT VIGILANCE!_ ” became less and less feasible as the hours ticked by. Twenty minutes before class was due to start, I sought out Professor Moody and requested a pass to the hospital wing.

Some people find Madam Pomfrey to be a bit much—she is the textbook example of a mother hen—but I’ve always rather liked her. The hospital wing was one of the few places at Hogwarts without expectations: you were simply there to be taken care of. It was a nice break from the rest of life’s demands.

Madam Pomfrey greeted me with the usual amount of fuss along with the requisite questions about whether I’d been eating enough (yes), drinking enough water (probably), and sleeping enough (almost certainly not). She administered a Headache Draught and chivvied me off to one of the cots with instructions to rest while the potion did its work. After a brief lecture on the importance of healthy sleep habits, she snapped the curtains shut and left me to lie quietly on the cot. 

I lay there for a while, breathing evenly and deeply, my arm draped over my eyes to block out the light. I was not exactly sleeping and not exactly awake, but somewhere in the middle. The pain gradually began to recede as the muscles in my neck and shoulders slowly relaxed.

I wasn’t entirely sure how much time had passed when I heard footsteps.

“What seems to be the trouble, my dears?” said Madam Pomfrey.

“I’ve got cramps, she’s getting a cold,” said a familiar voice. My half-asleep brain identified the speaker as Angelina.

“It’s just allergies,” said another voice hoarsely. That was Alicia.

“You don’t _have_ allergies _,_ ” said Angelina. “Honestly, we go through this every time.”

“We certainly do,” said Madam Pomfrey. There was a short pause. “Fever. As I suspected.”

“I’m just overheated—”

“Really, Miss Spinnet, must we go through this again?” clucked Madam Pomfrey.

“Have you got a potion for stubbornness?” asked Angelina dryly.

“If I had, I would have used it in her third year when she insisted that her broken arm was just sprained,” said Madam Pomfrey. “Go lie down and I’ll get you both sorted. The cots over there, if you don’t mind.”

There was some shuffling and general noise as Madam Pomfrey administered the appropriate potions and got both girls settled.

“Did you and Lee decide what you’re doing for Valentine’s Day?” asked Alicia quietly a few minutes after Madam Pomfrey left.

Angelina sighed. “No. I told him I’d rather not do anything, but he’s insisting.”

“That’s adorable and you don’t appreciate it enough.”

“It’s so corny, though,” said Angelina. “Why do you need a special day to buy someone flowers or chocolates or say that you care about them? You should just appreciate people every day.”

“Yes, well, the rest of the world doesn’t share your philosophy,” said Alicia.

“Have you got plans?”

Alicia snorted. “You’ve got to have a date to have plans. It’s rotten being single round this time of year. And it’s worse this year because it seems like everybody’s got someone. I might be the only single girl left in Gryffindor.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m really not,” said Alicia. “Since the Yule Ball alone, Katie, Hermione, Annabelle, Vicky, Bea, and Charlotte have all paired off with someone.”

My ears perked up a bit at the sound of my name.

“Charlotte and Fred,” said Angelina with a short laugh. “That was a combination I didn’t expect.”

I took my arm off my face and opened my eyes.

“Are they officially seeing each other?” asked Alicia.

“I assume so,” said Angelina. “Seems like they’ve been together enough. He was snogging her in the common room after that party last week and they certainly seemed cozy.”

Even though attracting attention was the intent of that display, I felt my cheeks redden slightly.

“What is it?” said Alicia after a slight pause.

“Nothing.”

“You’ve got something on your mind. Out with it.”

“It’s going to sound mad.”

“Out with it.”

Another pause. I hardly dared to breathe.

“It’s just…” Angelina began, “the timing on that relationship seems…rather convenient.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well…you know Fred fancied me.”

“Yeah.”

“He disappeared at the Yule Ball for a bit when Lee and I started kissing, so I thought he might be upset. Then…I dunno—two weeks after the Ball, he’s snogging Charlotte in the corridor by the Charms classroom.”

I resisted the urge to sigh in exasperation. I knew this plan was stupid. Angelina was smart, of course she’d see right through it, what did we think was going to happen? And if Angelina worked it out, couldn’t Aidan have done as well? Why did either one of us think this had a prayer of working?

“What’s your point?” asked Alicia.

“It just seems odd…like…maybe he was doing it on purpose. To get back at me or to make me jealous.”

Alicia’s sigh was long and dramatic. “There’s only one problem with that theory and it’s the fact that the world doesn’t entirely revolve around you, Ange.”

All right, so maybe it wasn’t a lost cause after all. Maybe we still had a chance.

“All I’m saying is that the timing is suspect,” said Angelina. “And you know how Fred can get. It wouldn’t be out of the question for him to do something utterly mad like that. And Charlotte’s sweet, but I think she’s naïve enough to not see that.”

I felt a flicker of annoyance. Naïve?

“Or he realized that you two weren’t going to happen and decided to explore other options,” said Alicia. I was almost certain an eye roll accompanied this statement. “Even if you were right and this was all part of some dastardly plan of his to win you over, what does it matter?”

“It doesn’t matter to _me_ ,” said Angelina. “It’s not like Fred being with someone else is going to change every feeling I’ve ever had for him or make me realize that I was wrong. It’s just rather inconsiderate and messy, and doubly so because it’s not going to work. And it’s certainly not fair to Charlotte.”

I felt slightly mollified by this. Even though she was talking behind my back, she at least seemed to have my best interests at heart.

There was of course the fact that she seemed to believe that such a plan wouldn’t work. I resolved to worry about that later.

“Charlotte strikes me as the sort of person who can handle it,” said Alicia. “Have you seen her write someone up? She can be magnificently terrifying. Last year, I saw her catch Montague trying to use an instant scalping hex on a first year. She told him if he tried that again, she’d hex him with something uncomfortable and permanent. I wanted to give her a medal.”

I have to admit that was one of my finer moments.

“Maybe,” said Angelina. “Still doesn’t make it right.”

“Maybe not, but you can’t right every wrong in the world, Ange.”

I heard the clicking of Madam Pomfrey’s shoes against the floor. Angelina and Alicia fell quiet.

“How are you feeling, girls? Any better?”

“Getting there,” said Angelina.

“I still think it’s allergies,” said Alicia.

“I should think that after years of healer training I can tell the difference between a cold and allergies, Miss Spinnet,” said Madam Pomfrey.

Alicia grumbled something incomprehensible.

The curtains suddenly parted around my bed. “Miss Lewis, how’s that draught working?”

Though the curtains were only partly opened, I could see the tableau in front of me: Alicia, utterly mortified, the overall effect enhanced by the steam that was still pouring out of her ears from the Pepperup Potion; Angelina, calm, her slightly widened eyes the only indication of her discomfort.

I cleared my throat and smiled. “Just fine.”

* * *

 “Right,” I said. “That was a bit awkward.” 

Angelina and Alicia and I met in an empty classroom about an hour later. I sat on top of one of the desks and Angelina and Alicia sat on the desks directly across from me. Alicia’s ankles were crossed, her feet swinging back and forth in sort of a nervous tick. Angelina was still, but her perfect posture and the tension in her jaw betrayed just as much agitation as Alicia.

I knew what I was going to say, but I couldn’t really decide if I was angry or not. Angelina’s “naïve” comment aside, the things that I had overheard were not cruel so much as tactless—the sort of things that you still might say to a person’s face, but only if you were asked directly and only with a healthy amount of diplomacy. It was hard to fault them for candor in what they thought was a private conversation.

“Yeah.” Angelina looked at me levelly and cleared her throat. “I didn’t intend for you to overhear that.”

“I imagine not.”

“I’m so sorry, Charlotte,” said Alicia. Steam was still pouring out of her ears from the Pepperup Potion. “We both are.” She nudged Angelina.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

There was a long beat of silence.

“So, erm.” I cleared my throat. “It sounded like there might be a small misunderstanding. About me and Fred.”

“She didn’t really mean that,” said Alicia. “It was just talk and—”

“No,” said Angelina, cutting her off. “I did mean those things. I might have phrased them better and I certainly wouldn’t have said it if I’d known you were there, but I did mean what I said.”

One thing I’ve always liked about Angelina is that she has no patience for artifice—not from herself and not from other people. Her directness was refreshing. There were no secrets—at least from her side of things. It was straightforward and simple.

“Well,” I said, “I can clear up some of your questions for you. If you’d like.”

Angelina thought for a moment and nodded. “Go on.”

“You’d noted the timing seemed convenient. That’s fair. It makes more sense in context, though.”

“What’s the context?”

“Fred and I…neither one of us had a particularly good time at the Yule Ball.” I cleared my throat. “Fred for…obvious reasons, and me, well…I had my own disappointment that evening.”

Angelina was silent, unreadable.

“We happened to meet in the gardens and we got to talking,” I said. “He told me about what had happened with you.”

“What did he say?” Angelina cut in.

“Just that he’d had feelings for you, you’d turned him down for a date, and it was difficult seeing you and Lee like that.” I paused for a moment, searching for the right words. “Especially…he knew you were going to the ball as friends, but I think it was…difficult for him because of that as well.”

Angelina’s eyebrow twitched slightly, but she didn’t dispute anything.

“Anyway, we were both a little sad,” I said. “So we commiserated with each other. And we kept talking a bit after the Yule Ball…and eventually it became clear that something was developing.”

“I mean, yeah, that makes sense,” conceded Angelina, with a small shrug. “But the turnaround on that is still fast.”

I was prepared for this. “Right. And I don’t mind telling you that I was really skeptical at first.” This was not, strictly speaking, a lie. “I had the same concerns that you did—that he was reacting specifically to you and Lee being together and was not really interested in me. So initially I said no because I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Well,” I said, “Fred is fairly persistent.”

That earned me a flicker of a smile. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Well, he kept at it,” I said. “I really didn’t want to leap into anything, especially if it meant that I was just going to get hurt again. But eventually, he talked me into a date…and it went really well.”

Angelina nodded, still not looking entirely convinced. I decided to change my strategy.

“Look, I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I thought it was some sort of elaborate ruse to get back at you.” Again, not a lie, strictly speaking. “I know I don’t have the longest dating at record at Hogwarts, but I’m not naïve and I’m not stupid.”

Angelina sucked in a sharp breath. “I worded that poorly.”

“Yeah.”

Angelina nodded and there was a moment of silence between us.

“What I’m getting from this conversation,” said Alicia quietly, “is that I was right: the world doesn’t revolve around you, Angelina.”

There was weak laughter from the three of us, the tension momentarily eased.

“If I’m being honest,” I said, with no small amount of irony, “I probably would have had the same suspicions if I’d been in your place.”

Alicia raised an eyebrow. “Really? You would have leapt to that utterly mad conclusion as well?”

“Well. Maybe not exactly the same conclusion,” I said, shrugging. “But near enough. In any case, I understand why this happened and I’m not upset.”

“You’re a good deal nicer than I would have been,” said Alicia with a smile.

“It’s really no trouble,” I said.

“You…er—you won’t say anything to Fred, yeah?” said Angelina.

“Of course not.”

That was a lie. Of course I would be telling Fred about this. The question was, how much was I going to share?

* * *

Bea was absolutely not on board with the concept of my third fake date with Fred.

“ _Studying_?”

We were in the dormitory getting ready for the evening. Bea was wearing a white off-the-shoulder top, slim fitting black trousers, bright red lipstick, and an expression of utter horror. 

“Yes,” I said, brushing my hair and twisting it back into a sloppy bun. “We’ve got that Charms exam next week.”

“I know,” said Bea. “George and I are studying for that tomorrow. Because I have a _date_ tonight. Do you notice how these two things don’t overlap?”

“Wait a moment, George is _studying_? Willingly?” I said, rummaging through my makeup bag.

“Well, not exactly,” said Bea with a sly smile. “He understands this set of material better than I do and I think he feels a little guilty about getting me tossed out of the library. So naturally, I’ve exploited his guilt and he’s helping me.”

“How long d’you think you can leverage that against him?

“It’ll depend on how long Madam Pince keeps me out,” she said, shrugging. “You know, he’s a damn sight cleverer than he lets on. If he applied himself, he’d be brilliant.”

“Oh, they’d both be,” I said, dabbing on some concealer.

“But getting back to my point: when did you decide on this utterly depressing date?”

“I dunno, Monday, maybe.”

“I assume this was your brilliant idea?”

“Yes.”

“This is why you need a social secretary.” She eyed my oversized grey sweater and black leggings. “And a wardrobe consultant. Are you really wearing that?”

“Yes, why?”

“Bit casual, don’t you think?”

“You helped me pick this out,” I said pointedly, uncapping an eyeliner pen. “It’s stylish, but more importantly, it’s comfortable.”

Bea sighed. “I suppose for a study date it’s fine. What’re you doing for eye shadow?”

“Something brown, probably.”

Bea rolled her eyes and looked through the makeup I’d taken out and tapped on three colors. “Lid, crease, brow bone. Your eyes will pop. And use that pinkish lipstick.”

“All right.”

“And promise me you’ll do something more entertaining for the next one.”

“It’s Fred’s choice next time, so probably. Assuming there is a next time,” I said, brushing on one of the colors Bea had chosen. “I’m told I’m quite boring.”

“Oh stop, I think it’s pretty clear you’re quite keen on each other."

“Well, we aren’t official yet.”

“ _Yet_.” Bea checked the clock. “Well, I’ve got to go meet Devereux. Enjoy your boring date, try not to be too wild.”

“Will do. Have fun, stay safe.”

Bea wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and departed from the room.

I arrived in the common room ten minutes later to find Fred waiting for me, wearing a blue checked button down, a knit navy cardigan, and jeans. He’d staked out a spot on one of the couches and it looked like he had at least brought his Charms textbook and notebook with him. The common room was mostly empty save for us and some third years playing Gobstones.

“Weasley, I’m shocked,” I said, sitting down beside him, tucking my legs underneath me and settling my textbook in my lap. “Did you actually come prepared?”

He shook his head, sighing. “Your lack of faith is always so hurtful, Lewis. One day you’ll make me cry and you’ll regret all these cruel words.”

“You exaggerate.”

He picked up a box of sugar quills and rattled them at me. “I even brought a gift, but now I’m reconsidering.”

“I take it all back,” I said. “Did you know that those are my favorite or was it just a lucky guess?”

“Bit of both,” he said, tossing the box to me. “I’d seen you studying with them before so I reckoned I couldn’t be that far off.”

“Well, that’s quite thoughtful of you,” I said, opening the box and choosing a lemon flavored one.

“Lemon?” he said, wrinkling his nose.

“Of course,” I said, handing him the box. “They’re my favorite.”

He chose a raspberry and set the box down on the table next to us. “I think you are the only person I’ve ever met who prefers lemon. They’re always the last ones left when I buy a box.”

“Well, you can give them to me,” I said, fiddling with the wrapper. “So…before we get started, I need to speak with you seriously about a conversation I overheard.”

“Is this about Kilbourne?” he asked, shifting in his seat so he was angled more toward me.

I took a deep breath. “No. It’s about Angelina.”

He was quiet and focused as I recounted what I’d heard in the hospital wing yesterday afternoon, along with the subsequent conversation that I’d had with Angelina and Alicia in the empty classroom. I left out one part—the part where Angelina said that a plan like that wouldn’t work. Better to give him a moment to digest this information before jumping into that. I studied him carefully as I spoke, but his expression was largely unreadable as he stared thoughtfully into the middle distance, brow slightly furrowed. After a moment of silence, I gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Fred, are you all right?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah…I think this is…I think this is good. She’s noticed that something is happening…”

That little note of hope in his voice tugged at my heartstrings. I had to tell him. It was the fair thing to do.

“There’s something else,” I said slowly. My hand still rested on his shoulder and I found myself hoping that it would help soften whatever blow might be coming. Fred looked at me and I took a deep breath. “Alicia asked her why it mattered—if her theory was correct, what difference would it make to her. Angelina said it wouldn’t—that you being with me wasn’t going to change her feelings or make her realize anything.”

To my surprise, Fred laughed. “You mean she’s skeptical that our plan won’t work? Novel criticism, that.”

I frowned, my hand sliding off his shoulder. “You’re not worried about that?”

Fred shook his head. “No. Thing is, Angelina _says_ that me being with another person wouldn’t bother her or change her mind, but that’s not accounting for a critical factor.”

“What’s that?”

“Generally, the fastest way to get Angelina to do something is to tell her she can’t,” he said. “Third year, Snape told her that she’d never make it to N.E.W.T.-level Potions because she’d mucked up her Shrinking Solution so badly.” Fred paused and gave me a slow smile. “Have you noticed what’s on Angelina’s schedule this year?”

“N.E.W.T.-level Potions,” I said.

“Exactly. And she’s one of the best in our year,” said Fred. “Fact is, telling Angelina she can’t date me because I’m with someone else is probably the most effective way to get her to change her mind.”

“So…you’re not upset about this,” I said slowly.

“No.” He looked at me for a moment and smiled. “Did you think I would be?”

“Well…yes, I was a little worried.”

His smile changed to one of utter delight and he placed his hand on his heart. “Charlotte Lewis, worried about little old me. I’m touched.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“No,” he said, draping his arm over my shoulders. I leaned into him, resting my head against his shoulder. “Not a lot of people worry about me, you know,” he said, his voice going a little more quiet. “Apart from Mum and Dad, of course. Well, mostly Mum. And her worrying tends to be more on the order of ‘he’ll never take anything seriously or get a proper job.’”

“That’s not unreasonable,” I said.

“I don’t disagree. But not a lot of people worry about my feelings. George might once in a while. But I think most people assume that I can just handle things. And that’s true to a certain extent.” He squeezed my shoulders and pressed a brief kiss to my temple. “But it’s rather nice to have someone worry, you know?”

That quiet, intimate feeling was back, prickling at the base of my throat.

“I’m quite happy to,” I said quietly.

We sat in silence for a moment or two, the fire crackling merrily in front of us.

“Fred?”

“Mmm?” 

“Do you think we’ll be friends after all of this is done?”

He chuckled. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“I dunno. Awkwardness?”

“What’s awkward about it?” He shrugged. “Nothing, if we don’t want it to be. We craft the narrative of our fake breakup so that we remain friends. Besides, you know I couldn’t abandon you, you’d miss me too much.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’d make it through,” I said.

“You adore me and you can’t imagine your life without me in it.”

“You just keep telling yourself that.”

We were quiet again, Fred tracing figure eights on my shoulder with his forefinger.

“As long as we’re having serious conversations,” he said after a moment, “you’re going to have to stop avoiding Aidan, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you tiptoeing around him,” he said.

I grumbled. “Maybe.”

“There’s no ‘maybe’ about it,” he said, stopping his figure eights to poke me in the shoulder. I swatted at him half-heartedly. “But seriously, you can’t keep avoiding him. Of the two of us, this plan has a better chance of working for you. Don’t throw that away.”

“What do you mean it has a better chance of working for me?”

“He fancied you, yeah? Your foundation is already built, so to speak.”

“What about you?”

He shrugged. “Oh, I’ve got a bit of work to do, but I’m not worried about it. She’ll come round.”

We were quiet again.

“We should study,” I said.

“Damn.” He heaved a sigh. “I was hoping I could distract you with telling secrets long enough that you’d forget.”

“Not a chance, Weasley,” I said, sitting up and opening my textbook.

* * *

“Come on, Lewis.” 

It was a few hours later, after we’d given up on studying for the night. Fred was pulling me by the hand down the Fat Lady’s corridor.

I sighed. “I don’t see why we have to go out here.”

He raised his eyebrows at me. “If you were really dating someone, would you just be content to have a quick kiss goodnight in the common room if there was another option available? After doing something as stressful as studying?”

He had a point, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

“You’re overthinking it,” I said as he ducked under one of the arches, pulling me with him. The arches seemed more intimate and secluded in the flickering light of the torches than they had in the broad light of day.

“And you’re underthinking it,” he countered. We were standing toe to toe, his hands resting lightly on my waist. “It’s almost like we’ve switched places. Shall I start fretting about rules?”

I poked him in the chest. “Cheeky.”

He grinned and caught both of my hands in his, placing them on his shoulders. “Come on, Lewis, it’s twenty minutes until the curfew bell.” His hands went back to my waist. “We’ll run in looking flushed and breathless, it will be perfect.”

I considered this for a moment. My reluctance largely stemmed from what had happened the last time he’d kissed me in the same location. I didn’t want to lose track of myself again. But I suppose the chance of that happening was small—I’d admitted enjoying certain aspects of kissing and he had his chance to tease me about it. He had no reason to try that again. And really, as long as he didn’t try that thing with my lower lip or the other thing with my ear, I could keep my head on pretty well.

“All right,” I said finally. “But if Bea catches us and makes a stupid joke again, you’re buying me a butterbeer next Hogsmeade visit.”

“I’ll buy you two,” he said as he leaned forward and closed the gap between us.

He kissed me gently at first—just lips, no tongues—and I felt myself start to relax a little. After a moment, his tongue came to trace my lower lip and I found my lips parting despite myself. He tasted of the sugar quills we’d split earlier—raspberry, apple, and (of course) oranges.

I don’t know if he was purposely waiting for me to fully relax. Possibly. But when I did—when I’d sort of found myself in that dreamy state of just enjoying the sensation of being kissed—that is when he caught my lower lip between his teeth.

My breath hitched; my toes curled.

He pulled back, with a smirk.

“Why do you insist on doing this?” I said, hoping that he wouldn’t notice the color in my cheeks in the low light of the torches.

“Because, Lewis,” he said, tapping my nose, “you are usually so self-possessed and calm and it is delightful watching you squirm.”

More heat rose to my cheeks. “Well I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I said dryly.

“Oh, we both know you are too,” he said, grinning mischievously. “Hence the squirming.”

I glared at him, which only served to make him laugh harder.

“Come on, Lewis,” he said, brushing a strand of hair out of my face. “You’re allowed to enjoy yourself, you know.”

“I know,” I said, flushing again. “It’s just…rather intimate, is all.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “We just had our tongues in each other’s mouths. Do you not consider that intimate?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Not really.” His smile faded into a frown. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“No, it’s not that…” I tried to think of the words. “I just don’t want to get carried away.”

“Charlotte,” he said, his voice growing low and solemn, “I promise I will put a stop to things before you ravish me in the corridor.”

I didn’t want to laugh but I couldn’t help it. “That is not what I meant, you git,” I said, pummeling my fists lightly against his chest.

“It is a little bit what you meant,” he said, quirking an eyebrow.

“You’re bloody impossible.”

He grinned, catching my wrists in his hands. “Listen, if it’s too much, you can always tell me to stop and I will. And I’ll do the same if I ever feel it’s too much. But we don’t have to not enjoy it to not get carried away. If you enjoy having your ears kissed, enjoy having your ears kissed. It doesn’t have to lead anywhere else.”

I looked at him for a long moment. “All right.”

He grinned. “Now. We’ve got ten minutes. Can I kiss you until the curfew bell rings?”

“Yes.”

“All right. I’ll let you take the lead”

He dropped my hands and pulled me back toward him. I brought my lips to his. He kissed me back gently, opening his mouth only when I nudged his lips with my tongue. I kissed him until the very last chime of the curfew bell, at which point I grazed my teeth gently along his lower lip.

His breath hitched; his hands tightened on my waist.

I pulled away from him my eyes twinkling, a smile tugging at my lips.

“Got you.”

I turned and sprinted down the corridor.

“Lewis!”

I made it to the common room before he caught me round the waist, pulling me toward him.

“You’ll pay for that,” he said, panting and laughing.

“Oh, I think we both enjoyed that,” I laughed.

“Oi! Get a room, Weasley!” shouted Lee, good-naturedly. There was a rumble of laughter.

Fred wiggled his eyebrows at me before lowering me into a dip and kissing me to a chorus of hoots, hollers, and other untoward commentary from the room. We parted, laughing, and Fred took an elaborate bow while I rolled my eyes.

I didn’t know it then, but this was the moment that I stepped onto a tightrope.

* * *

In typical fashion, Fred was very cagey about our next date. 

“I’m making arrangements,” he said cryptically during the practical part of Transfiguration. “That’s really all you need to know.”

“Oh, why don’t you let me decide what I need to know and not know?” I said.

“No offense, Lewis, but I trust my judgment more than yours on this one.”

“Well, you have to tell me at some point,” I said. “And not just seconds before we leave, either. I’ll need to make sure that I’m dressed properly. And I think it’s fair to allow me the opportunity to ask you to amend plans or decide if it’s too far over the line.”

“Hmm.” He eyed me thoughtfully. “You make a compelling point.”

“I usually do.”

“I’ll give you twenty-four hours notice.”

“Seventy-two,” I countered.

“Forty-eight.”

I considered this for a moment. “You have a deal.” We shook hands. “I’ll expect to hear from you no later than noon on Thursday.”

He raised his hand in a mock salute. “Acknowledged.”

* * *

I didn’t really know what to expect and so I told myself that I couldn’t really be surprised if I didn’t have any expectations to begin with. It would be like multiplying by zero—it didn’t matter what I expected, I would get the same result.

I was, of course, wrong about this.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I said to Fred at approximately 12:01 on Thursday afternoon.

Fred, per usual, looked positively delighted by my bafflement. “We’re going to Hogsmeade,” he said with the sort of slow grin that usually meant that he was having too much fun at my expense.

“It’s not a Hogsmeade weekend,” I said.

The grin grew wider. “Technically, no.”

I stared at him for a moment, silently weighing whether I wanted to pour my ice water over his head and wondering if that would wipe that infuriating grin off his face. “How is this happening?”

“Now, Lewis,” tutted Fred, “that was not part of the agreement.”

I puffed out an irritated sigh. The ice water was looking a bit more appealing than it had previously. “You are impossible.”

“You’ll see soon enough,” said Fred. “And really, you should be thanking me for this. A romantic fake date on an illicit day trip to a picturesque little village?” He gave a low whistle. “There are songs written about that, you know.”

“Name one.”

“I can’t be responsible for your musical education, Lewis,” said Fred.

“Especially when the songs in question don’t exist.”

“You’re awfully cheeky today, you know?” he said, poking me in the ribs.

I swatted his hand away. “I would submit that I’m not awfully cheeky so much as you’re unusually irritating.”

“Oh, Lewis, we both know I’m delightful.” He lowered his voice slightly. “Keep this under your hat, though. I don’t want word getting out.”

“You’re going to have to help me come up with a believable cover story to tell Bea.”

“Oh, you can tell Bea,” said Fred. “There’s probably no getting around that. And George already knows, so I reckon it’s fair. I just don’t want it getting around, you know?” he said. “It’s the sort of thing that tends to snowball if word gets out.”

He was, of course, right. It snowballed. A lot. More than either one of us expected.

That evening, I was doing homework with Bea at a table in the common room when Fred slid into one of the empty chairs next to me, wearing a too-bright-everything-is-fine sort of smile that made me immediately suspicious.

“Hi,” he said, his voice edging toward too cheery, “I need to have a word with you.”

My eyes went from Fred, who looked too earnest, to Bea, who had put down her quill and was shamelessly listening in. “What is it?”

“Have I mentioned how pretty you look today?” he said, propping his chin on his hands and tilting his head to the side.

“Good move, soften her up,” said Bea, nodding.

“More like rouse my suspicions,” I said, my eyes narrowing. “What have you done?”

“Well, _I_ didn’t do anything,” said Fred, in a way that seemed to suggest that this was merely a twist of semantics.

“Fred.”

“Lee might have heard me discussing our excursion with George,” said Fred. “And he thought that sounded brilliant. To the point that he’s invited himself along. With Angelina.”

My eyes widened slightly. “Oh.”

A look passed between Fred and me. This was…less than ideal. Especially given my conversation with Angelina last week.

“I object,” said Bea, completely oblivious to the silent conversation that Fred and I were having.

I sighed and turned to her. “Not that you were part of this conversation, Bea, but what is it that you object to?”

“If you’re going on a double date, I rather think that I should take precedence over anyone else,” she said. She directed a pointed look at me. “I _am_ Charlotte’s best friend.”

I arched an eyebrow at her. “You want to bring Devereux to Hogsmeade?”

“Merlin, no,” said Bea, looking a bit like she’d caught a whiff of something sour. “Devereux is rapidly rounding the corner from ‘entertaining but irritating’ to ‘insufferable.’” She gave a rather exaggerated shudder. “I will be shocked if we make it past March.”

“Then what exactly are you proposing?”

“I shall attend as a chaperone.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Please?” She pulled her lips into an exaggerated pout.

“ _No_.”

“Fine.” Her pout abruptly shifted to her normal expression. “But I do actually need to pick up some things. There’s a clothing shop there and I am in desperate need of some new gloves.”

I sighed, shutting my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. I looked at Fred. “What do you think?”

Another too bright smile. “Well. I hadn’t gotten to the fact that George had also invited himself along when he found out Lee was coming, so I imagine he can look after Bea.”

“I don’t need looking after!” she protested. “ _You’re_ both in need of a chaperone, not me. If anything, George is the one in need of a chaperone.”

“You can look after him, then,” said Fred.

“Interesting,” said Bea, with the sort of expression that told me that part of her day would likely include attempting to tail Fred and me with the damn notebook of George’s.

“Are you sure that’s wise?” I said, looking pointedly at Bea. “They’re not exactly positive influences on each other.”

Fred laughed, putting his hand over mine. “Charlotte. What could possibly go wrong?”

It was a question that we really should have been asking all along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys! You are all so nice! Thank you for reading and commenting and kudosing and subscribing and bookmarking! What a lovely welcome to AO3.
> 
> As far as an update: April is probably going to be busy with work stuff. My plan will be to have a chapter posted by early May of 2018, with the possibility of a surprise update in between.
> 
> Not 100% sure how I feel about this chapter, but I think it's time to let it go. Let me know what you think! I always love hearing from people.


	10. The Romance of Vengeful Ghosts

The upside of this Hogsmeade date was that there was so much that could go wrong that I couldn’t decide what to worry about. We could get caught sneaking out of school. Bringing Lee and Angelina along could blow up in our faces. Bea and George would almost certainly be supremely irritating; George would likely bring that damn notebook. I still wasn’t entirely sure that this harebrained scheme was even working.

In the end, my brain couldn’t quite settle on one potential problem, so it instead settled on nothing. 

“I’m rather impressed,” said Fred before Defense Against Arts that Friday. “I’d thought you’d be pinging off the walls right about now.”

“Congratulations, Weasley, you’ve broken me,” I said tonelessly as I took out my books. “I’ve too many things to worry about and it’s completely overloaded my poor brain. I’m afraid I’ll never be the same.”

“And it only took me four fake dates,” he said, looking rather pleased with himself. “I expect you’ll be back to normal shortly, though.”

“Oh, probably,” I sighed. “A girl’s got to have a hobby after all.”

Bea, of course, could not be persuaded to abandon her self-appointed duties as wardrobe consultant.

“I didn’t help you last time and you wore leggings and a baggy jumper.” She was ransacking my wardrobe once again, pausing for a moment to aim a scolding look in my direction before redirecting her attention to a green cardigan.

“I got another date, didn’t I? Also, how many times must you do this? Surely you’ve memorized my clothes by now.”

“Don’t question my methods,” said Bea, tossing the cardigan onto the bed and picking up a yellow blouse. “You should be grateful that I’m willing to lend my expert advice.”

I eyed the mess of clothes stacked haphazardly on my bed. “I’d be grateful if you put everything back properly.

Bea chucked the blouse at me. “Cheeky.”

“Besides,” I said, taking the blouse and refolding it neatly, “I hardly think I should prostrate myself with thanks when a). I have repeatedly told you that I do not need your assistance and b). you’ve gone and invited yourself on this date.”

“You have demonstrated that you are in need of my assistance,” said Bea, putting a hand on her hip. “Source: that jumper and those leggings. I’m discounting your second argument on the grounds that by the point I got involved, half of Hogwarts was coming on your date.” She paused, giving me a beatific sort of smile and batting her eyes. “Besides, I’m delightful company.”

“It’s the less-than-delightful combination of you and George that concerns me at the moment.”

Bea snorted and held up a pair of grey trousers. “My collaboration with George Weasley is one of the great partnerships of the age. We’re like Watson and Holmes, only not fictional or detectives.”

“You’d better see to it that he doesn’t bring that damn notebook.”

“Who am I to tell anyone what to do?”

“And yet here you are, refusing to let me dress myself.” 

“That,” she said, raising her eyebrows and looking back at me, “is because you have demonstrated a certain lack of personal creativity. Shall I discuss your boring knickers again?”

I sighed and flopped backwards onto the bed. “You’re going to drive me to an early death.”

“Alas.” A jumper landed on my face. “I’ll make sure you have a nice funeral.”

* * *

Leaving Hogwarts was a complicated affair that involved carefully timed departures, creeping into a secret passage in the back of a statue of a one-eyed witch, and tiptoeing out of the Honeydukes basement.

“Well. I can’t say I expected that,” I said to Fred as we walked up High Street. 

“What, were you thinking we’d just casually stroll off the grounds through the main gates?” asked Fred, his eyes twinkling. “Lewis, you’ve so much to learn.”

“Oh, I thought it would be best to not think too much about the details on this one,” I said. “It seemed like the safer option.”

“It usually is.”

“Speaking of details, where is it that we’re going?”

“Three Broomsticks.” He checked his watch. “The others should be along within the hour and they’ll meet us there. I tried to get out of it, but Lee insisted.”

I frowned. “Won’t Madam Rosmerta notice a table of Hogwarts students?”

Fred shook his head. “We’ve an arrangement.”

“That sounds rather cryptic and quite possibly sinister.”

Fred grinned. “Hardly. The arrangement is that I’m pleasant and charming and I always leave a gratuity on my bill.”

Compared to school visits, the Three Broomsticks was nearly empty when we arrived. Madam Rosmerta looked up from the bar at the sound of our footsteps and to my surprise, she shook her head and smiled, as though she not only expected to see Fred, but was rather amused by his appearance.

“I knew you couldn’t keep a secret,” she said with a sigh. “Though I must admit you kept quiet for longer than I thought you would.”

Fred grinned and leaned up against the bar, resting his chin in his hands. “You also told me that sneaking into Hogsmeade is a time-honored tradition of many Hogwarts students, including yourself. Sort of relies on not keeping secrets, doesn’t it?”

Madam Rosmerta swatted him in the face with her bar rag. “Don’t be pert with me, young man.” She smiled and glanced at me. “I take it that he’s trying to impress you?”

I shrugged. “More or less.”

Fred pushed himself off the bar. “Charlotte Lewis is notoriously difficult to impress. But she won’t be able to resist my charm and wit for long.”

I arched an eyebrow. “That remains to be seen.”

Fred snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me to him. “She likes me, she’s just afraid to admit it.”

Madam Rosmerta chuckled and gave me a wry smile as I attempted to extricate myself from Fred’s iron grip. “Oh, I’m sure. I imagine you’ll be wanting a table for two then?”

“Six, actually,” said Fred, finally relinquishing me. “And butterbeers for the two of us.”

Madam Rosmerta’s calm veneer finally cracked. “ _Six_?”

“All I tried to do was take a lovely girl on a nice date,” sighed Fred, placing a hand over his heart, his shoulders sagging and his mouth turning downward in an exaggerated pout. “It can’t be helped if I have a nosy roommates."

Madam Rosmerta shook her head. “You’re going to be the death of me, Fred Weasley.”

“I’ll make sure you’re remembered in my will,” said Fred, solemnly.

She sighed and rolled her eyes heavenward, as though she was not only accustomed to this sort of nonsense, but that she was both amused and exhausted by it. “You can have the table over there.” She gestured to a nearby table situated by the window. “Special today is pot roast and we’re out of the lamb stew. I’ll have your drinks in a moment.”

“Cheers,” said Fred.

Madam Rosmerta busied herself at the bar and we sat down at the table, shrugging out of our coats.

“Sneaking out to Hogsmeade is really a Hogwarts tradition?” I asked, taking off my gloves and shoving them into my coat pocket.

“It is,” said Fred as he unwound his scarf. “You are now part of an elite group of students. It’s quite a selective group, you should be very proud.”

“What are the selection criteria? Finding a secret passage and not getting caught?”

“That and a little bit of daring,” said Fred with a smile, nudging my foot under the table. “I told you you’ve got more nerve than you think.”

“I’d like to remind you that I  _had_ to go here,” I corrected him, nudging his foot back with mine. “Seeing as I was made to agree to do something utterly insane on every other fake date.”

Fred shrugged. “Close enough.”

“Speaking of our fake dates: this is number four. We should probably consider becoming a fake official couple at some point soon, don’t you think?”

“Probably.”

I looked at him pointedly. “Well…when do you want to get that sorted?”

“Lewis. What have I told you about scheduling romance?”

“I am aware of your feelings on the matter,” I said, rolling my eyes. “In fact, I can quote you: ‘A Weasley does not _romance_ a woman on a timetable, Lewis. You can’t schedule _passion_ , Lewis.’”

“I have a feeling you’re mocking me and I don’t like it,” he said, wagging a finger at me.

“I would never dream of mocking you.”

“Now you’re lying.”

“Careful, Weasley. You realize that I have to _agree_ to being your fake girlfriend. I can’t say these accusations have me feeling particularly charitable.”

“Blackmail?” He whistled. “Seems I’m rubbing off on you. You’re turning into a right criminal.”

I laughed. “Who have you ever blackmailed?”

“Never you mind.”

“That’s probably for the best.” I leaned in. “But look, can I make one request?”

“I’ll consider it.” 

I took a deep breath. “I suppose there’s no point asking you not to do something ridiculous.”

He grinned. “That is typically a fruitless endeavor, yes.”

“I know the point of this whole exercise is to attract attention but—”

“You don’t want me to put you in a position where you have loads of people looking at you and waiting to hear your answer.”

The tension in my shoulders eased a bit. “I don’t mind if it’s a little showy, but the whole concept of putting someone on the spot like that just makes me queasy. Even if it is a fake relationship.”

Fred smiled and patted my hand. “Don’t you worry: I’ll manage something that’s sufficiently showy without making you feel queasy.”

“More romantic words were never spoken.”

“Cheeky.”

“Speaking of queasy—are you going to be all right with this?” I asked, gesturing vaguely at the table. “Angelina and Lee, I mean.”

Fred shrugged. “Maybe. Probably. Can’t do much about it, at any rate. Besides, I’ll only need to get through lunch. I reckon we’ll all go our separate ways afterward.”

“Well, if you need a moment, let me know,” I said. “Nudge me under the table or something. That can be our code.”

“Will do.” He looked up. “There’s George and Bea now.”

“I always thought that statue looked a bit dodgy,” said Bea, plopping down in the seat next to me and picking up a menu. “Ooh, lamb stew.”

“They’re out,” I said.

“Bugger.”

“Lee and Angelina should be along shortly,” said George, pulling off his hat and running a hand through his hair. “I told them to wait until quarter of.”

“Ah yes, and here’s George,” said Madam Rosmerta, approaching the table, that half-amused sort of smile returning to her face. She set the buttterbeers down in front of Fred and me and arched an eyebrow at George, her hand resting on her hip. “Let me guess: you are also trying to impress your girlfriend.”

“Oh, we’re not together,” said Bea.

George sighed. “We can’t be. She’s only just inherited her ancient husband’s vast fortune following his mysterious death and it would only look suspicious. We must pine for each other from afar until the estate is settled.”

“You’ll have to excuse George,” said Bea, placing a gentle hand on George’s shoulder and looking at Madam Rosmerta with an exaggerated expression of pity. “He’s an idiot.”

“Oh, I like you,” said Madam Rosmerta with a smile.

“I’m rather delightful, aren’t I?” said Bea, beaming. “Is it true that you’re out of the lamb stew?”

“I’m afraid so. We’ve got pot roast today, if that suits.”

“Intriguing. I’ll think on it for a bit, but can I have a butterbeer for the time being?”

“Absolutely. George?”

“I’ll have the same.”

“So what are you two planning on doing after lunch?” I asked as Madam Rosmerta headed back to the bar. “Because you can be damn sure you’re not following us around.”

“When have we ever followed you around?”

“George, you literally own a notebook in which you insist on recording Merlin knows what about our movements.” I narrowed my eyes. “Which for your sake, I sincerely hope you have not brought with you.”

George grinned. “Now Charlotte, that would be telling.”

“Besides,” said Bea, “I’d have thought you’d be touched that your friends care about you so much.”

“I’d rather you’d cared a little less.” 

“Not possible,” said Bea, flinging her arms around me in an exaggerated bear hug and planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek. “Such is our love for you.” 

“Careful, Bea,” said Fred, failing to hide a smile. “I might get jealous.”

“You, Fred Weasley, aren’t even her proper boyfriend yet,” said Bea, releasing me and folding her hands on the table. “Which is something that we need to discuss.”

I glared at Bea. “Is it really though?”

Bea ignored me. “What’s the delay, Fred?”

“Bea, you know how these things are,” sighed Fred. “My solicitors have been speaking with her solicitors, both of us need to read over the contract, Charlotte keeps asking for an increase in her stipend and you know I haven’t got that kind of money…”

“And then you’ve got to get the damn thing notarized,” added George. “And you know you can never find a notary when you need one. It’s like they don’t think these things through.”

Fred shook his head. “I tell you, this paperwork is enough to make a lad reconsider the entire notion of romance altogether.”

“You know, a simple ‘none of your business’ would have sufficed,” I said with a wry smile.

Fred grinned. “I can’t help it if I’ve a rich imagination, now can I?”

“Perhaps you could channel that into more productive pursuits,” I suggested. “Maybe creative writing or painting.”

There was a subtle change in Fred’s expression—so quick that you might not have noticed it if you blinked—and I knew immediately that Lee and Angelina had arrived.

“Looks like they made it all right,” he said. I nudged my foot against his under the table and he caught my eye, giving me a quick smile.

As Lee and Angelina approached the table, I realized it was this part that I was most nervous about. To a certain extent, I was used to fudging my way through half-truths about my relationship with Fred, but the stakes suddenly felt a lot higher. My smile felt bright, tight, and artificial when Angelina caught my eye and I found myself tapping my fingers nervously against my knee in a kind of frantic arpeggio.

The only reason that the entire thing wasn’t a complete disaster was because the ratio of who knew the truth and who didn’t was decidedly in our favor. Bea, bless her, didn’t know anything about Fred and Angelina and certainly nothing about our harebrained scheme. George and Lee might have known that Fred once fancied Angelina, but not that his infatuation was still ongoing and certainly not that we’d orchestrated a plan to address it. Angelina probably knew the most, but I had hopefully convinced her that her suspicions of the truth were largely unfounded.

Of the six of us, only Fred and I knew everything. We were a strange partnership in a tangle of emotions, broken hearts, and lies dressed up like the truth. It was camaraderie that gave me a strange sort of confidence. I watched how easily Fred put on a casual grin to mask his emotions, the easy way he slung his arm across the back of my chair, the way he was able to conjure smiles that seemed genuine if you didn’t know to question them, and after a while, it became easier to believe that we might actually be able to pull this off.

“I can’t believe you tossers never bloody _told_ me about this,” said Lee, plopping down in one of the empty chairs. “This is brilliant.”

“Secret keeping is not typically their strongest suit,” said Angelina. Her expression was particularly Angelina-ish: largely stoic and calm, but if you looked carefully, you could catch a twinkle in her eyes that hinted at a quiet sort of amusement.

“Oh, I thought it was rather obvious,” said Bea. “My other theory was that George had a trunk that was devoted entirely to chocolate frogs and Zonko’s products and that didn’t seem plausible.”

George shrugged. “I think a man’s entitled to his vices.” He poked Bea in the shoulder. “Besides, I never heard you complain about it.”

“Not about the chocolate frogs,” said Bea, her eyes narrowing. “The Zonko’s products I could live with out.” She turned to Angelina. “Do you know he put a fake doxy in my bag two weeks ago? I opened it in the _library_. Madam Pince still won’t let me back in.”

“I beg your pardon, _that_ was a custom built Weasley original, not some Zonko’s imitation,” said George, huffing in mock offense.

Fred sighed. “I told him she wasn’t the right subject for product testing, but he didn’t listen. Six weeks worth of work, smashed to bits with a Transfiguration textbook. Absolute tragedy.”

Lee gave a low whistle. “You smashed a Weasley original, Bea? That’s a national treasure. You’re lucky he hasn’t filed a complaint.”

Angelina arched an eyebrow, fixing a pointed look at both George and Lee. “Do you really think this is an argument you’re going to win? I don’t think anyone would’ve faulted Bea if she’d cursed him on the spot.”

“Oh, she’s not mad at me,” said George, grinning. “I’m too charming.”

“I rather think that it’s more that I’m too magnanimous and you don’t appreciate it,” said Bea.

I bit my tongue and tried to hold back a smile, which did not escape George’s notice. “Charlotte looks skeptical.”

Bea fixed a stern look at me and then I couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

“ _None_ of you appreciate me.” Bea jabbed a forefinger against the surface of the table. “One day, I’ll be gone and then you will realize that I was the single thread of stability holding your lives together and you will weep for the way you abused my kind and gentle nature.”

“We’ll build you a glorious memorial statue,” said George solemnly.

“‘Here lies Beatrice Pierce,’” said Fred. “‘The single thread of stability holding together the lives of many, appreciated by none.’”

“‘In lieu of flowers, please make a donation to the George Weasley Defense Fund, a non-profit group dedicated to providing legal remedy to those who have been wronged by George Weasley.’”

Bea’s stern expression finally cracked, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Please: it’s called the George Weasley Victims Relief Fund.”

Initially, it seemed like perhaps I’d been overly cautious in my worry about the potential awkwardness of this part of the Hogsmeade outing. Lee and Angelina stepped into the patter of the conversation without missing a beat, which I suppose made sense given that they were both friends with Fred and George. Bea’s cleverness and quick mind thrived in this sort of environment. I was content to listen and throw in a comment here and there, keeping a weather eye on Fred, watching for a sign that he was ready to leave.

“So,” said Bea toward the end of lunch, “where are the two of you going off to next?”

Lee waggled his eyebrows. “Oh, you know, somewhere _romantic_.”

I held back a sigh. So much for avoiding awkwardness.

Angelina rolled her eyes. “Hardly. He’s insisted on Zonko’s.”

“She keeps saying that like Zonko’s isn’t romantic,” sighed Lee, draping an arm round Angelina. Angelina had previously struck me as the sort who wasn’t keen on public displays of affection of any sort, but she made no move to dislodge Lee’s arm, merely giving the sort of put-upon sigh that was equal parts irritation and genuine affection.

“It’s not far from that little playground,” said Bea with a sly sort of smile. “Which, if I recall correctly, has a rather secluded area underneath the green dragon slide…”

“ _Bea_ …” I gave her a stern look—less because of the content of what she was saying and more because she was unknowingly making an awkward conversation even worse. Not that the why mattered: she wasn’t listening to me, a point that she made clear by sticking out her tongue.

“Like I said: it’s very romantic,” said Lee, smiling rather wickedly at Angelina.

“Honestly, Lee, you’re an embarrassment,” said Angelina. But there was a pretty sort of blush on her cheeks that hadn’t been there before and her eyes lingered for just a half second too long on Lee.

I didn’t dare look at Fred: to look at him would give everything away.

“I only intend to be a _little_ unseemly with you,” said Lee.

Angelina groaned. “If you keep at it, Lee Jordan, you’ll be lucky if I agree to go at all.”

Lee gave her a dazzling smile, utterly undeterred by her narrowed eyes and the stubborn set of her jaw. “Can you really blame me for being so enraptured by your beauty?”

“Don’t tell me that you’ll need a chaperone as well,” said Bea. “George and I are going to have to tail Fred and Charlotte and I’d really rather not split up our team.”

George nodded. “We’ve a whole system. I’m a bit lost without her.”

I sighed. “I believe that we previously established that the two of you will _not_ be doing this.”

“Left to your own devices, you two end up breathless up against the wall quite often,” said Bea. “Who’s to say what will happen without my watchful eye?”

Lee looked moderately impressed and gave Fred a thumbs up; Angelina rolled her eyes and smacked his hand away.

My cheeks flamed. “Bea, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I know about the empty classroom that you and Devereux have been using to snog and I have absolutely no reservations about telling Peeves.”

“Devereux? Is that the Beauxbatons boy I’ve seen you with?” asked Angelina. “Maybe you can introduce me to one of his friends after I dump Lee for being a disgusting prat.”

Bea shook her head. “Oh, you don’t want that. They’re all horrid. I’ve only kept seeing Devereux because he’s good at snogging and nice to look at and even that excuse is starting to wear thin." 

“Looks like you’re stuck with me, love,” said Lee cheerfully, planting a kiss on Angelina’s cheek.

Fred nudged my foot.

“What’s the time?” I asked.

Fred checked his watch. “Quarter of.” He gave me a sly sort of grin. “Shall we depart for our undisclosed location, my sweet?”

I sighed. “I believe I made my feelings on pet names clear.”

Fred grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“If you must.” I narrowed my eyes at Bea. “Bea Pierce, I swear on my life—”

“Oh, keep your hair on, I only do it because it’s fun to irritate you.” She grinned widely at me. “Just be sure to be safe and—”

I clamped my hand over her mouth before she could continue with that particular thought. “We’ll meet you lot back here at four, yeah?” Bea licked my palm and I yelped, snatching my hand back and wiping it on my napkin. “You’re disgusting.”

“Love you, too!” she said, blowing a kiss at me.

I scowled at Bea as Fred dropped some coins on the table. We collected our coats and bundled back up, waving to Madam Rosmerta as we left the building and ventured back out into the cold.

“All right?” I asked as soon as the door shut behind us.

“Yeah.” Fred scuffed his shoe against the ground. “More or less.”

I nodded. “I’m assuming we’re not going to Zonko’s.”

Fred’s laugh was bitter. “No. I thought maybe the Shrieking Shack.” 

“Ah yes, the second most romantic place in Hogsmeade.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s rather frightening and a little isolated. Perfect for the young couple trying to escape their overzealous chaperones.”

“Fair enough.”

We walked in silence for a moment. I watched Fred out of the corner of my eye. He wasn’t visibly upset, but he also wasn’t quite himself. He finally noticed one of my surreptitious glances and gave me a grim sort of smile.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” I said. “You don’t seem like it.”

He sighed. “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s probably best if I don’t think about it too much.”

“What will keep your mind off it, then?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Just talking. That always helps.”

“All right. What do you want to talk about?”

He squinted at the sky. “Anything.”

“That is a rather broad subject, don’t you think?”

“I’m ambitious.”

“Clearly. But you’re going to have to narrow it down a little.”

“Hmm.” He thought for a moment. “Tell me something about yourself. Something you haven’t told me before.”

“There are a lot of things I haven’t told you.”

“Pick one.”

“We-ell…” I chewed my lip, thinking. “I’ve a nickname. I don’t think you know that about me.”

Fred’s face lit up. As much as it was a relief to see him happy, his eyes sparkled with the sort of delight that instantly made me feel cautious about sharing any more details.

“Go on…”

“It’s not terribly exciting,” I warned him. “And I’ll only tell you as long as you promise not to use it. It’s a family nickname—it’s weird when non-Lewises use it.”

Fred stopped walking and held up his right hand. “You have my word that you will never hear that name from my lips.”

“You needn’t be _that_ dramatic about it,” I said, poking him in the chest.

“I take our secrets very seriously, Lewis.”

“Clearly.” I paused for a moment, allowing a small smile. “It’s Cricket.”

Fred put both of his hands on my shoulders. “That,” he said, staring into my eyes very seriously, “is completely adorable.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“What originated that charming name?” He dropped his hands from my shoulders and we continued walking.

“Nothing very exciting, I’m afraid.” I stepped aside to avoid a patch of ice. “When I was little, we used to read a book about a very quiet cricket. Dad thought it suited me.” I shrugged. “He gave all of us odd nicknames like that.”

“Go on, what are the others?”

“Alice is Goose. As in silly goose—not Dad’s most creative work. Ophelia is Duckie and Bianca is Bunny.” I ticked each one off on my fingers.

“So you’re the only insect?”

I smiled. “Yeah. Dad said he didn’t really think about that until it had already stuck. I don’t mind—I’ve always been a little different from my sisters anyway.”

“That’s quite sweet.”

“What about you? Any charming family nicknames?”

“Nothing that inventive. Forge—as in Gred and Forge. Pretty self-explanatory. And occasionally—” He gave me a very serious look. “—and you must swear that you’ll never, ever use this…”

“How about this: I won’t call you by whatever name it is as long as you don’t call me Cricket.”

He looked genuinely pleased. “Incentivizing my silence. You’re learning, Lewis." 

“Are we in agreement, then?”

“We are.” He took a deep breath. “ _Occasionally_ …” He let a dramatic pause linger until I cleared my throat expectantly. “…my parents call me Freddie. My siblings as well, but mostly to irritate me.”

“That is not nearly as bad as you made it out to be, but I’ll never breathe a word.”

We were both quiet for a moment.

“Now you tell me something,” I said, bumping my shoulder against his.

“What do you want to know?”

“I dunno—how about…tell me about the biggest thing you’ve ever been in trouble for.”

Fred chuckled. “Oh no.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Well, yes. It’s one of those things that’s both funnier and more stupid and dangerous in retrospect.”

“Oh, this should be excellent.” 

To my surprise, he looked faintly embarrassed. “You have to promise you’re not going to think terribly of me. I was quite young and I didn’t fully understand what I was doing.”

“Of course not.”

He took a deep breath, only this time it didn’t seem like a stalling tactic. “George and I tried to get Ron to do an Unbreakable Vow.”

I winced. “Oof.”

“Yeah.” He kept his eyes focused on the road in front of us. “Not my finest moment, certainly.”

“What were you trying to get him to promise?”

“Oh, it was something stupid, like if he ever had dessert, he’d have to give us half. Dad caught us right before. He’s generally quite even tempered, but that day…” Fred trailed off and shook his head. “He was _furious_. Rightly so, of course. We could’ve killed Ron. Only time I’ve ever been spanked.” His expression was oddly somber in a way that unnerved me a bit.

“Well, now I feel guilty. This talk was _meant_ to cheer you up, not depress you. Do you want to hear about mine? It’s considerably less grave and rather stupid.”

His usual grin was back. “Lewis, I hardly think you need to ask that question. Let’s have it.”

“Well, when I was seven, we went to visit one of my aunts. She lives in the country in the sweetest little house. And my favorite part about the house was this little balcony off one of the bedrooms. I thought it was desperately romantic and I had this whole idea that I could go out onto the balcony and pretend to be a princess or a very fancy noblewoman.”

Fred laughed. “Is this a common fantasy?”

I shrugged. “I dunno, I had a rather overactive imagination as a child. Anyway, the balcony was unstable—one of the supports had rotted through and the railing was a bit rickety. They kept trying to cast reinforcement spells on it, of course, but it wouldn’t take—it had something to do with the wood and the potion that had been used to treat it originally. So my parents were naturally very adamant that I was not to go on the balcony because it wasn’t safe.”

“I take it you went on the balcony.”

“Of course I did. But you see, I made several important mistakes. The first was that I chose to make my attempt while my parents and my aunt were sitting on the terrace below in full view of the balcony. And even if they didn’t see me walk out, they would have worked out that I was there because the balcony made this horrid groan and sank a bit as I stepped out onto it.”

Fred was smiling. “You are the worst rule breaker I’ve ever met.”

“Oh, it gets better,” I said. “My second mistake was that I was also pretending I was a princess, which is to say that I was also singing as I did this.”

Fred laughed. “You weren’t.”

“I was. ‘Lavender’s Blue.’ It’s a folk tune.”

Fred looked like he couldn’t quite process his sheer delight. “This may well be my favorite Charlotte Lewis story in the history of Charlotte Lewis stories.”

“Better than my sneaking out to the disappointing illicit midnight bonfire party?”

“Certainly.” He laughed again. “Well, I take it you survived that adventure.”

“Oh, yes. Dad cast a Levitation Charm to get me down straightaway. Lots of screaming and ‘what were you thinking?’ and ‘you could have been injured.’”

“How is it that you managed to get through that without getting grounded?”

“I think they were just relieved that I was all right—the balcony actually collapsed the following night.”

Fred clapped his hands together and laughed. “Merlin’s pants, you _broke_ the balcony.”

“I’ll have you know that the man who came round to work on it said that if a seven-year-old stepping out onto it weakened it enough to cause the collapse, it was probably just a matter of time.” I kicked a pebble. “Still, my parents made me spend the summer doing chores to earn money to help my aunt pay for the restoration.”

“Brutal.”

We were quiet for a few minutes.

“I think if we’re taking turns, it’s your turn to ask me a question,” I said.

“How very orderly of you.” He pursed his lips, squinting at some unknown point in the distance. “What sort of question do I want to ask Charlotte Lewis?”

“If it’s horrid and embarrassing, I reserve the right to not answer,” I said, nudging him with my elbow.

“You know, I hadn’t even thought to ask something untoward until you brought it up.” He gave me a mildly chastising look. “Once again, Lewis, your mind is in the gutter.”

I sighed. “You are ever the impossible thorn in my side, aren’t you?”

Fred grinned. “You pretend to be cross about it, but you adore me.”

“Debatable.”

“Just for that, I’m going to ask you something embarrassing.”

“You can certainly try, there’s no guarantee I’ll answer.”

He was quiet for a moment as he thought. His face finally broke into a smile. “All right, Lewis. First kiss. Spill it.”

“Oh, that’s a thrilling and hilarious tale.”

“Go on.” 

“It was with a boy called Gavin Hollifax. He used to live in our neighborhood. He went to some school in Germany—I can’t think of the name. Anyway, we—I don’t want to say we dated because it was so ludicrously brief—but we were together for about two weeks the summer before fourth year. He kissed me in the back garden while we were stargazing.” 

Fred was smiling. “All right, where’s the part where this gets hilarious?”

I sighed. “Well…have you ever seen one of those Muggle transports—it’s not an airplane, but it’s a bit similar? With the blades?”

“A helicopter?” He frowned. “What does that have to do with your first kiss?”

“Well.” I paused. “Kissing Gavin was…a bit like kissing a helicopter.”

Fred doubled over laughing. “ _What_?”

I raised my eyebrows, smiling. “I can demonstrate if you really want to have the full experience.”

“I think you’re going to have to because I’m genuinely having difficulty envisioning this.”

We stopped walking and he leaned in and kissed me. I shoved my tongue into his mouth and whirled it around like I was swinging a lasso. Fred immediately began laughing and pulled away from me.

“That was actually worse than I imagined,” he said, pulling a rather horrified face.

I laughed. “I mean, I’d never kissed anyone before and even _I_ knew he was doing something wrong.”

Fred frowned. “Wait a moment. You were together for two weeks—did you kiss him more than once?”

I hesitated. “Yes.”

“ _Lewis_.”

“I was young and stupid,” I said, shrugging. “At that point, the novelty of having a boy like me was compelling enough to keep at it. Not for very long, mind.”

“Honestly, if _that_ was your first experience with kissing, it’s a wonder that you came back to it at all.”

“I’ve had better experiences since then.”

He put a hand to his heart. “Lewis, I’m touched.”

“You really go for any opportunity to boast about yourself, don’t you?”

“It’s not boasting if it’s true.” He pulled me toward him. “Here, give me a proper kiss. I feel like I have to exorcize that from my mouth.”

I leaned in and kissed him very gently on the lips. “Right. Now tell me about yours.”

“Oh, there’s no way mine beats yours.”

“Don’t care, I want to hear it.”

“It was the summer before fourth year. Zelda Cabot. One of the girls from the village. George and I used to go to the shops there sometimes. I met Zelda about a week before we went back to Hogwarts. She had these excellent Muggle comics—that’s why we got to talking. We sort of met up for a little bit—just walking around and talking, nothing special. On the last day, I worked up my nerve and kissed her under a magnolia tree.” 

“And how did that go?”

He shrugged. “It was a bit sloppy. Didn’t really know what I was doing.” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “Obviously, I’ve studied and improved my technique significantly since then.” He dodged me as I swatted at him.

“So what happened with you and Zelda?”

“Well, here’s the problem,” he said, a particular combination of embarrassment and amusement creeping across his face. “Zelda was a Muggle, so she didn’t know about Hogwarts. And in my haste to vault over that particular milestone, I may have neglected to mention that I would be going away to school for the next few months.”

“Oh no.”

“Needless to say, she wasn’t particularly keen on repeating the experiment when I returned for Christmas holidays.”

“I can imagine.”

We had arrived at the Shrieking Shack. Broad daylight made it a little less unsettling that it might have been—it looked like a very old, boarded up house that could _possibly_ be haunted. Still, though, there was something about it that made me draw my coat a little more tightly around me.

“You’re not scared, are you, Lewis?” said Fred, nudging me.

“It’s the most haunted building in all of Britain,” I said, swatting at him. “I think it’s rather sensible to feel a bit uneasy.”

“Rubbish.” He slid his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my head. I leaned back into him, grateful for the extra warmth. “I thought we’d established that you’re more daring than you thought.”

“I have to draw the line somewhere. Vengeful ghosts seem like a sensible place to do it.” 

“I don’t know if they’re all that vengeful. George and I have tried to get in and they’ve never gone after us.”

“I thought that was just a rumor. Don’t tell me you actually tried to break in.”

“Once again: your doubt is very upsetting.” 

“ _Fred_.” I turned around to face him. “Why on earth would you do something so monumentally stupid?”

“I beg your pardon, we were doing research.” He grinned and tweaked my nose. “No one’s _ever_ been able to break in. No one knows what’s actually in there. We would have been providing a public service.”

“Or a cautionary tale,” I said, poking him in the chest. “You forget that the going theory is that there are some very angry ghosts haunting that place. What would’ve happened if that turned out to be true?”

“I think they would have been charmed by our boyish looks and winning personalities.”

I laughed. “Is that your typical defensive strategy?”

“Of course.” He grinned. “With a face like this, you’d be stupid not to rely on that as a strategy.”

“You’re too much, Fred Weasley.”

He gave me a wide smile. “If anything, I’m too _delightful_.”

I rolled my eyes. “So what actually happened when you tried to break in?”

Fred shrugged. “Not much. All the entrances are sealed. Very complicated spellwork—I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“No ghosts came out to shout at you for trespassing?”

He shook his head. “We heard some eerie sounds and there were some odd shadows in the windows, but nothing extraordinary.”

“Just another day in the life of Fred Weasley.”

He grinned. “I do have a lot of thrilling adventures. Keeps things interesting.” He jerked his head toward the Shrieking Shack. “Want to have a look?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you’ve asked enough of my poor nerves on this date?”

“We’re just getting started.” His eyes twinkled in a way that felt slightly dangerous.

“Fred—”

“Come on, Lewis.” He was approaching the fence. “This is hardly a proper fence, you don’t even need to leap over it.” 

“You’re not actually going to do this—”

He ducked under the barbed wire—which admittedly had a particularly wide gap—and stood up on the other side. “See?”

“Fred, get back here.”

He grinned and turned on his heel.

“Fred!”

He kept walking.

As it turned out, my desire to avoid vengeful ghosts was second only to my desire to not see Fred attacked by said vengeful ghosts. Swearing and gritting my teeth, I ducked through the fence and emerged on the other side, sliding after Fred as he tramped through the snow.

“You are going to get us killed,” I said as I caught up with him.

“Oh, Lewis, don’t be such a spoilsport.”

“I am concerned for our safety and well-being.”

“And you mock me and roll your eyes when I say that you adore me.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “I think you’ve secretly grown rather fond of me.”

“Well, you’re certainly testing _that_ theory.”

He chuckled. “Oh, go on. We don’t have to go all the way up to it and I won’t try to break in again. Will that ease your mind?”

“No.”

He gave me a sidelong glance, his mouth crooking upward into a sort of half smile as he extended his hand. “But you’re going to go with me anyway, aren’t you?”

I sighed irritably, putting my hand in his. “Let’s just get this over with.”

His expression broke into a full on grin. “Lewis, you’re a delight.”

Fred loped casually toward the Shrieking Shack and I followed, my heart pounding in my throat and my grip on his hand tightening as we made our way closer and closer to the house. To his credit, he didn’t complain once, though I was fairly certain I was on the verge of compressing the bones in his hand into a fine dust.

We stopped about twenty feet away from the house. Up close, it wasn’t quite as bad as I thought it might be—it simply looked a bit more sad and abandoned than it did from farther away. But then a cold wind whipped against us and I could swear I heard an unsettling sort of groan and a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold ran laps up and down my spine.

“See? It’s not so bad,” said Fred cheerfully. “If we fixed it up, it’d almost be rather cozy.”

“You can take on that task by yourself.”

“I think it’d be rather convincing if we took it on together,” he said. “It’d really give gravity to our fake relationship. Aidan and Angelina would be knocking down our door to confess their feelings.”

“Or the vengeful ghosts would be knocking down our door to get back at us for evicting them from their home.”

“Nah, I imagine they’d be pleased,” he said. “It must get a bit dull, being vengeful all the time. I reckon they’d like a break.”

I studied his face as he looked around at the building, a soft smile playing at his lips. He seemed… _happy_ , strange as it was to say. And for just a moment, I forgot about the shivers creeping up my spine and the fact that we were standing in the shadow of a famously haunted house. “You genuinely enjoy this place, don’t you?” I said quietly.

He looked at me and smiled. “You’ve worked out my secret. I’m rather fond of the Shrieking Shack. You were joking earlier, but I’ve always thought it’s a bit romantic.”

I laughed. “Romantic? How?”

He shook his head. “You’re so clever, Lewis, but sometimes you astound me with the tremendous gaps in your education.”

I elbowed him. “Enlighten me then, oh wise one.”

He squinted up at the house, shielding his eyes against the sun. “It’s a great big mystery, isn’t it? There are rumors and theories, but no one has ever really worked out what this place is or what’s inside.” He looked back at me. “It’s always been this great possibility in my mind. Not just what’s inside—it could very well be nothing—but the idea that someone could work it out.” He looked back at the house again. “It’s like you’re standing on this precipice of what-if and I’ve always found that to be sort of a romantic notion.”

I don’t know what I expected Fred to say, but nothing like that had ever crossed my mind. I looked at the house, trying to see it as this big question mark, the grand what-if that Fred had described.

“I suppose you’re right,” I said after a moment.

Fred looked back at me, and the softness was gone from his eyes, replaced with the sort of carefree amusement that I was accustomed to. “I did have some ulterior motives in bringing you here,” he said, doing his best to look chagrined.

I raised an eyebrow. “What’s that? Did you make a wager with the vengeful ghosts and this was all just an elaborate ruse to bring them a living soul”

“Now do you really think so poorly of me that you think I’d sacrifice you to vengeful ghosts? I thought our friendship meant more to you than that.”

“Yes, because most friends take each other to famously haunted houses for fun.”

“Cheeky.” He grinned. “No, I brought you here because I’ve always wanted to kiss a girl in front of the Shrieking Shack.”

I sensed there was more to that than this particular admission, so I waited, eyebrows raised.

“…and maybe Lee and George and I made a bet during third year about which one of us would be the first to do it.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “Typical.”

“Come on, Lewis.” He stood in front of me, putting his hands on my waist. “I’m doing you a favor, you know. Think of what an excellent story this will make.”

“‘Ah, yes, let me tell you about the time that Fred Weasley nearly got us both killed by vengeful ghosts so he could win a bet he made as a thirteen-year-old.’”

He scoffed. “We’ve been here for nearly ten minutes and we haven’t so much as seen a single vengeful ghost.”

“Unless they’re waiting for us to be distracted by something. Like kissing, for example.”

“I’ll give you a cut of my winnings.”

“You’re going to need to be more specific than that.”

His smile widened. “You really are learning, aren’t you?’

“Like you said, I’m clever.”

He smirked. “Thirty percent.”

“Forty percent _and_ you’ll let me choose the next _two_ dates and you can’t complain about them.”

He considered this for a moment. “Deal.”

He leaned in and kissed me.

And as much as I hated to admit it, there was something rather romantic about being kissed right in front of a famously haunted house while the winter wind tangled in your hair and you huddled close to the person kissing you to get a little extra warmth. For a moment, the cold and the eerie creaking of the Shrieking Shack didn’t quite matter. I was pressed against the solid warmth of Fred’s body, luxuriating in the feeling of his mouth on mine. I felt comfortable; I felt safe.

He ended the kiss and suddenly I found myself staring into those maple brown eyes, twinkling with that familiar sort of amusement that reminded me that this was all just a game. A queer sort of embarrassment bloomed somewhere in my stomach and I hastily dismissed it.

“Thanks, Charlotte,” he said.

“You’re welcome.” I took a deep breath, trying to shake that odd feeling. “Have you sated your thirst for entirely stupid decisions or would you like to go knock at the door to see if any vengeful ghosts are at home?”

He grinned and pecked me chastely on the lips. “You’re a peach. Come on, I’ll buy you something at Honeydukes.”

I suppose it’s a strange sort of testament to my trust in Fred that I didn’t really think twice about turning my back on the most famously haunted house in Britain and walking away, my hand clasped in his. 

We were about halfway back to the fence when he started laughing.

“I knew it,” he said, pointing toward the road. Two figures—unmistakably Bea and George—were walking together down the road.

I crouched down and grabbed a handful of snow.

“What are you doing?”

“Well,” I said, calmly shaping the snow into a snowball, “I know for a fact that Bea has actively avoided going to the Shrieking Shack because she thinks if you’ve seen it once, there’s no point in going back.” I finished the first one and began working on a second. “And it’s been about thirty minutes or so since we left the Three Broomsticks, so I suspect she was waiting, hoping that I’d let down my guard. Hold this.” I handed the first snowball to Fred and stood, fishing my wand out of my coat pocket. “So I am crafting the appropriate response.” 

I muttered a quick spell and both snowballs zoomed out of our hands. I stood with my arms folded across my chest, watching the snowballs make their way toward their intended targets. Fred’s quiet laughter mingled with Bea and George’s shouts.

“Charlotte Lewis,” he said, chuckling as George unsuccessfully tried to dodge the snowball after it reformed, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to make me fall in love with you.”

I laughed then because I still didn’t know any better. You’re probably starting to tire of hearing this: how much foreshadowing can one story demand? Merlin’s beard, Charlotte, stop being so heavy-handed: we get it. But the thing is, looking back now, there were so many points—so many obvious points—when I ought to have taken a moment to stop and reflect, when I ought to have realized that I was veering quickly toward something that I didn’t understand.

It was all there, if I’d taken the time to look. Instead, I struck a match and twirled it idly between my fingers, blissfully unaware that I was about to slip, that I was about to be burned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry this is about two weeks later than I hoped it would be. In addition to general insanity with my job, Chapter 10 ended up being a doozy to write. I’m at a point in the story where Something Exciting will be happening, but it’s not for a few chapters yet and I kept getting ideas for that (and like four other fics) instead of the thing I was actually supposed to be working on. And then on top of all of that, this ended up being the longest chapter in the fic so far, which I wasn’t expecting. Alas. 
> 
> Timeline for the next update: In my real life job, March through July tends to be the Convergence of Many Deadlines. I’m also going to be traveling a bit this month. So, let’s go with late June to mid July 2018 for the next chapter, just to be safe.
> 
> As always, thank you all so much for your kind words, faves, follows, etc. You are all delightful people and I enjoy hearing from you!
> 
> And also: the helicopter bit? That was based on a real experience (albeit not a first kiss).


	11. Valentine's Day

If I went to a different school, I imagine the approach of Valentine’s Day might be heralded with flowers, candy in heart shaped boxes, and declarations of love. At Hogwarts, the approach of Valentine’s Day was instead accompanied by a particular sort of mass stupidity that seized the student body with the enthusiasm of a hippogriff clamping onto a dead ferret. 

The fourth years were the worst. They were the ones who I would find sobbing inconsolably in the bathrooms, corridors, and empty classrooms when they were supposed to be in class. The cause of their despair was almost always rather silly—fights that would blow over as soon as we were no longer in the shadow of Valentine’s Day, slights that would heal if they just talked to the person in question, an entire array of misunderstandings and misperceptions that had blossomed into unforgivable offenses.

But as it turns out, I am good at balancing sternness with sympathy, which is a rather ideal combination for these sorts of problems. McGonagall discovered this during the previous year and began scheduling me for extra rounds to shepherd the various weepers and wailers off to wherever it was they were supposed to be in the first place. The week before Valentine’s Day, I was not Cold Shower Charlotte so much as I was Cold Hard Truth Charlotte.

“Listen, I know you’re upset,” I’d say to a sniffling fourth year. “It’s awful, being in this sort of situation. Merlin knows it’s happened to me a few times. But you can’t miss class so you can cry about it—and I’m not just saying that because it’s breaking school rules.” 

I would pause here and take a deep breath, like I was about to impart some very serious wisdom.

“I’m going to take off my prefect hat for just a moment. If I didn’t care a thing about school rules, I would still tell you not to skip class to cry. And here’s why: because you’re giving him too much power. You’re letting him know that he’s upset you.”

This was usually the point where the sniffling would stop and their brows would furrow.

 “Here’s my advice: don’t let the bastard get to you. Even if he does get to you, pretend that he doesn’t. Act like he doesn’t mean anything to you. He’s _nothing_. Show up to class and act completely normal, like you don’t even know his name.”

This was when the idea would typically start to take root: jaws would harden, eyes would become focused and steely.

“Now, I’m really not supposed to do this—”

This was a lie: McGonagall had given me explicit permission to do this.

“—but I can write a note to your professor. I’ll say that you got hit with a leg locker curse and we were sorting everything out and that’s why you’re late to class. We’ll splash a bit of water on your face—I know a really clever charm that will help—and no one will be able to tell that you’ve been crying. What do you think? Shall we give it a go?”

In addition to a success rate of one hundred percent, this speech was generic enough that I could reuse it constantly—at most, I’d have to swap out some pronouns and a handful of other words. As far as a system goes, it was reasonably efficient and effective. 

The problem was that these extra prefect rounds occurred at the start of every class, so I was missing the first ten to twenty minutes of all my classes and free periods. Though I faced no academic penalty, I was dedicating just about every spare moment I had to getting caught up with the material that I’d missed so that I could immediately fall behind again the following day. Every morning began with a strong cup of coffee and every evening ended with me dozing off at one of the tables in the common room, only to be woken at one or two in the morning by Bea, who had inevitably noticed I’d never come up to the dormitory (she has a strange sixth sense about that sort of thing).

In this pre-Valentine’s Day madness, I very nearly forgot about Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t until Thursday’s Charms class that I remembered that I had a burgeoning fake relationship and a fake date to plan. 

“All right, Lewis, you’ve had me on pins and needles this entire week,” said Fred.

I frowned, trying to focus on his left hand. We were supposed to be practicing targeted Disillusionment Charms on each other. I’d missed the part of class where Flitwick had gone over wand movement and the information that I’d managed to glean from Fred’s scrawled notes was not particularly helpful.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Weasley.” I waved my wand and muttered the incantation. His hand faded from the wrist down.

“Our Very Boring Fake Date this weekend. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.” He held his hand up toward the light and squinted. “You can still see a bit around the edges.”

“Really?” I leaned closer to look at his hand. Sure enough, he was right—a faint line of skin was visible around the edge of his hand, like a strange, flesh-colored outline. I sighed and cast the counter-charm. “I could do this in my sleep last week,” I said as his hand reappeared. “Sleep. Sleep sounds nice.” 

“So, does that mean you haven’t come up with a plan for our Very Boring Fake Date?”

I stretched and then slumped back into my chair. “I’m sorry. I haven’t even thought about this weekend. I’ve been a bit frantic with everything going on. I might get to Friday and just collapse in a heap and sleep until Monday.”

Fred’s eyes softened. “You do look knackered.”

“I think roughly eighty percent of my blood volume is made up of coffee at the moment.” 

“That is the recommended amount.” He tapped my hand as he picked up his wand. “Your turn.”

I stuck my hand out. He waved his wand in a motion that looked more practiced and comfortable than my attempt. A cool sensation spread from my wrist to my fingertips as my hand disappeared in front of me.

I held my hand up to the light, looking for inconsistencies in the charmwork. “I think you’ve got it,” I said after a moment. “This looks fairly near perfect.”

Fred cast the counter-charm and my hand reappeared. He frowned, crossing his arms, his mouth twisting to the side. “You must be in a right state if I’m doing better than you in class.”

I put my hand on my hip. “You and I both know that you’re much better than me in Charms. You just don’t apply yourself consistently.”

That familiar crooked grin stole across his face. “You’re usually good enough to keep me on my toes, though.” He extended his hand again, his eyebrows raised in a sort of question. I sighed and waved my wand.

This time, his palm disappeared, but his fingers remained visible.

I slumped back in my chair. “Merlin and Morgana, I’m a _disaster_.”

Fred chuckled and waggled his disembodied fingers at me before casting the counter-charm on himself. “Listen, Lewis,” he said, putting a hand on my shoulder, “you are my secret co-conspirator and my favorite prefect. I can’t have you succumbing to madness.”

“I hope you are about to follow that up with a more productive statement.”

Fred tsked. “It’s already started, you’re being needlessly pert with me.” He placed a hand to my forehead, as if checking for a fever.

I swatted his hand away. “Are you just trying to antagonize me, or is there a purpose to this?”

He arched an eyebrow. “I was merely going to suggest that we do something completely undemanding this weekend.” 

“What’s that? Sit around the common room?”

“Spot on.”

I paused for a moment, frowning at him as I tapped my forefinger against my lips. “I feel like this might be a trap. Like I’m going to find out that ‘sit around the common room’ is really a secret code for something mad like…I dunno, alpine skiing with trolls.” 

“The school handbook doesn’t specifically say we _can’t_ go alpine skiing with trolls. That’s basically tacit permission.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “This is not raising my level of confidence in the non-trap nature of this date.”

He grinned, nudging my foot with his. “It is exactly as advertised. We will sit around the Gryffindor common room and not do anything.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Does that even count as a date?”

He scoffed. “How does it _not_ count as a date? We can cuddle up on one of the couches and stare dreamily into each other’s eyes. It’ll be very sweet. You can even doze off on me if you’d like and I’ll just stare at you longingly while you sleep.”

“Well, you had me until that last bit.” 

He sighed, shaking his head. “Really, Lewis, sometimes I question your understanding of romance.” He looked at me, a sly sort of smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So we’re on then?”

I paused for a moment, chewing on my lower lip and trying to decide whether or not he looked honest. He stared back at me with a pleasant sort of expression on his face, one that was neither particularly worrisome, nor particularly reassuring.

I exhaled and gave into the inevitable. “I suppose we are.”

* * *

Friday evening felt like a miracle when it finally rolled around. I had a mountain of work to catch up on, but the prospect of sleeping in for the next few days was tantalizingly close, close enough to give me a bit of a second wind. I lingered over dinner with Bea, sitting and chatting long after most students had left the Great Hall.

“What are your romantic plans for this weekend?” I asked once there wasn’t anyone at the table to overhear us.

She sighed, her shoulders slumping a bit. “Devereux has a surprise planned, which I think means he somehow got a hold of champagne and is going to try to talk me into having sex with him at the boathouse.” 

I wrinkled my nose. “The boathouse?”

“Of course. It’s only one of the top five most romantic destinations at Hogwarts.” She rolled her eyes. “Have I not told you about this? He thinks it’s secluded and romantic. Which it might be if we weren’t the middle of February and it didn’t always smell like fish and mildew.”

“Seriously,” I said, making a face. “And you know, Hagrid’s down there a fair amount as well. Snape has him put out traps for venomous tadpoles and clawed crawfish for the storerooms and he checks them daily.” 

“Another reason why it’s a stupid idea.” Bea laughed. “Can you imagine? Getting caught by Hagrid?”

I winced. “That’s an image I’d rather not have, thank you.”

“All righ’ Devereux?” said Bea in a gruff and cheerful sort of grumble that sounded eerily like Hagrid. “Havin’ a quick one are yeh?”

“This is unsettling.”

“Be sure ter use all the proper spells and charms, don’t want ter get yer lady there up the duff.” Bea shaded her eyes, squinting. “Bea Pierce, is that you? Now, I hope ol’ Devereux knows his manners. Ladies firs,’ Devereux.”

I was horrified but I couldn’t stop laughing. “Bea, you have to stop.”

“Yeh know, I had a few encounters here meself.”

“Bea—” 

“Caught the Golden Snitch—”

“You have to stop—”

“Passed a few Quaffles, hit a Bludger into the Keeper _and_ two Chasers, if you catch my meanin.’”

I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. 

“Had a few lasses polish the ol’ flesh broomstick.”

There was something about the phrase “flesh broomstick” that finally broke Bea and she buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with laughter. 

“Never do that again,” I said a few minutes later, when we’d both stopped laughing long enough to catch our breaths. “I think I’ve pulled a muscle in my stomach and now I have a multitude of disturbing images that I never, _ever_ wanted to think about.” 

“You think you have it bad, I have to _live_ with this sort of brain,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I’ll never be able to look at the boathouse the same way again.” 

“I take it you’re not going to go along with him on that plan, then.”

Bea snorted. “Of course not. It’s not even the boathouse so much as it is Devereux. The kissing and such is fine, but I just…” She made a face. “I really can’t see myself having sex with him.”

“Explain to me again why you are still seeing him?”

“Oh the breakup is imminent, but it won’t be happening this weekend.” 

“Why not? You’re not happy.”

Bea smiled sadly. “Because I was dumped right before Valentine’s Day and it was horrid and I don’t want to do that to someone else.” 

The breakup in question had happened last year and it was rather miserable. Bea had been seeing Ralph Kleinman for just over six months and had lost her virginity to him that January. When he dumped her at breakfast on February twelfth, Bea had very calmly finished her bowl of oatmeal, walked quietly upstairs to the dormitory where she took out Ralph’s Valentine’s Day gift—Circe, the single Chocolate Frog card that was missing from his collection, one that Bea had spent months looking for. She tore the card into tiny pieces and chucked it out the window before lying down on her bed and crying quietly for the next two hours.

“Does Devereux deserve that kindness?” I asked. 

She sighed. “It’s not so much a question of whether he deserves it or not: it’s the right thing to do.”

“All right, then when are you doing it?”

“After the Second Task.”

“Why? That’s more than a week away.”

“Because I reckon that’ll be one of the last all school gatherings before the Third Task and I don’t think that’s going to be until closer to the end of the school year.” She shrugged and smiled grimly. “It’ll be easier for me to avoid him if I wait until after the Second Task.”

I chewed my lower lip. “I don’t like it, but I don’t think I’ll be able to talk you out of it.”

“I am committed to this folly and my stupid bloody principles,” she said, picking up her water goblet and shaking the ice that remained at the bottom and taking a sip. “It won’t be so bad—if we’re kissing, he’s practically bearable.”

I shook my head and said nothing.

“But enough about me,” she said, setting her glass down and folding her hands on the table. “Tell me about your romantic plans for Valentine’s Day.”

“You’re not going to like it,” I warned her.

“Why? Is it shagging in the boathouse?”

“No.” I chucked my napkin at her. “We are going to sit around the common room and do absolutely nothing.” 

Bea arched an eyebrow. “Well, you’re right. Normally, I would not allow this.”

I sighed. “I know it’s not exciting, but I’m exhausted, Bea. Honestly, it sounds like the perfect thing for me right now.”

Bea’s expression softened a little. “I know. Which is why I said _normally_ I wouldn’t allow it. I’m granting an exception for this week.”

“Truly, your magnanimity knows no bounds. Who else would allow their best friend agency in her personal life?”

Bea chucked my napkin back at me. “You know that I’m just teasing you. Mostly.”

There was a flicker of something in her eyes, something that made me think there was more that she wasn’t saying.

“And…” I prompted.

“It’s nothing,” she said, her smile coming a little too quickly. “Just a passing thought.”

I gave her a stern look. “Bea.”

“What? It was a thought, it’s not particularly worth discussing.”

“Don’t make me chuck this at you again,” I said, picking up my napkin.

Bea huffed. “Fine. But you can’t be cross with me.”

“I will do my best.”

She paused for a moment, seeming rather uncertain. “Do you know why I’ve been pushing you about these things?”

I could feel that we were on the edge of some truth, a truth that would likely be more uncomfortable in the context of what my relationship with Fred actually was. My mouth felt rather dry. “I assumed it was purely for entertainment.”

“Don’t misunderstand me: that is still a critical motivating factor,” she said, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips before her expression turned serious once again. “I also…I don’t want you to sabotage this.”

I frowned, taking the napkin in my hands and folding it neatly into quarters. “What do you mean?”

“I suspect…” she began, speaking slowly, as though she were choosing her words very carefully, “I suspect that there is a not insignificant part of you that thinks that this is all some grand mistake on Fred’s part, that it’s only a matter of time before he comes to his senses.” She looked at her hands, picking absently at the pink nail polish on her thumbnail. “I could see you—I dunno, wearing leggings and an oversized jumper on a date as some sort of defense mechanism.”

“And not just because they’re comfortable?” I said, forcing lightness into my tone, trying not to let on that Bea had caught onto something that felt more real than I was prepared to admit.

“Because that way, you don’t seem like you’re quite as invested,” she said softly, ignoring my attempt at humor. “And therefore you think it won’t hurt as badly when it ends. And you think that if he’s going to come to his senses, showing up on a date in your leggings and oversize jumper might speed up the process and remind him that you’re not a girl who typically goes on a lot of dates.”

There was a brief moment when I thought I might cry. Bea had cut to the center of a truth that I didn’t want to admit to myself, let alone anyone else, and it was a truth made all the sadder by the fact that the relationship that she was talking about wasn’t even real to begin with. I didn’t even have the luxury of having someone who was interested in me. I took a deep breath, surreptitiously digging my thumb into the palm of my hand under the table, laying more bricks in the wall that kept my tears in check.

“Thing is, Charlotte,” said Bea quietly, “this strategy of self-sabotage has a fatal flaw. The right person isn’t going to be dissuaded by a baggy jumper and leggings. They’ll love that part of you. They’ll love every part of you.”

This was another truth that I wasn’t quite prepared to hear. I forced a smile and tried to make my tone light, unconcerned. “You realize that you’ve just made an argument _for_ me wearing baggy jumpers and leggings on all my dates?”

She smiled. “Yes. I suppose—my role as your wardrobe consultant has less to do with your wardrobe and more to do with me trying to force you to be kinder to yourself.”

“You know me,” I said quietly, trying to ignore the lump in my throat. “I’m an overachiever. I have high expectations.” I shrugged. “I’m reconciled to the fact that sometimes that means being disappointed in myself.”

Bea sighed. “You know, if anyone else were ever as cruel to you as you are to yourself, I’d slug them. I wouldn’t even use magic—I’d be so angry that I’d just hit them straight in the face.”

I laughed. “I don’t doubt it.”

“Good.” Bea’s smiled, but her eyes were still gentle, almost a little sad. “I just…I want you to be happy. I want you to enjoy this. You deserve wonderful things, Charlotte.”

I nodded, trying not to think too much about the truth that I was keeping from her. “Thanks, Bea.”

“Now,” she said, her smile brightening and her eyes glinting mischievously. “Allow me to continue to try to force you to be kinder to yourself. Let’s discuss what you’re planning on wearing.”

* * *

In the end, leggings and an oversized jumper won out. This was largely for reasons of comfort—I was exhausted and we were just going to be in the common room—but Bea eventually came round to the idea that the right oversized jumper paired with an artfully sloppy bun could result in a casually sexy sort of look. 

“Looks like you’re going to have to give up on the self-sabotage,” she said cheerfully.

“Or find another outfit,” I said, mostly to annoy her.

“You don’t like shopping enough to acquire an entire new wardrobe for the sole purpose of irritating me,” she said, turning to her own wardrobe. “Now help me find something that says ‘pretty, but not going to have sex with you at the boathouse.’”

Saturday evening found me curled up on a couch by the fire, reading my Herbology textbook while I waited for Fred to turn up. Bea had left sometime before, wearing the sort of grim and determined look that was typically associated with the waiting room at the dentist. The common room was a little emptier than usual, what with most couples having wandered off elsewhere for dates. I half-listened to the sound of Fred’s youngest brother, Ron, complaining to Harry Potter and Hermione Granger about an essay that Professor Snape had assigned that week as I paged through my textbook, rereading the sections that I’d missed in class that week.

“Lewis, that had better not be a textbook.”

I looked up to find Fred standing in front of me, wearing jeans and a beige cable knit sweater that looked like it might be handmade, a wicker picnic basket hooked over his elbow.

“What I do on my own time is none of your concern.” I eyed the basket skeptically, half-expecting some sort of creature to poke out a nose or paw. “I hesitate to ask, but what’s in the basket?”

He grinned at me. “Put that dreadful thing away and I’ll show you.”

I closed my textbook and set it down on the couch, my eyes trained on Fred as he set the basket down in front of the fire. I approached him cautiously as he opened the basket and removed a folded red-checkered blanket. A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth as he unfurled the blanket.

“Here, help me spread this out,” he said.

“Did you bring me a picnic?” I laughed, helping him lower the blanket to the floor.

“I told you we were going to sit around the common room,” he said, sitting down on the blanket and moving the basket next to him. “And later it occurred to me that we’d need to eat.” He patted a spot in front of him. “Come on, then. Have a seat.”

“Don’t you worry that you’re wasting a rather brilliant and romantic idea on a fake date?” I asked as I sat down on the blanket, crossing my legs underneath me.

Fred scoffed as he began unpacking the basket. “Lewis. We have scarcely scratched the surface of my brilliant and romantic ideas for dates. My catalog of ideas is encyclopedic.” He handed me a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. “Frankly, I’ve got to start using them before I begin forgetting. Besides, it’s just sandwiches—it’s hardly champagne and strawberries.”

I began unwrapping my sandwich. “Yes, well, it’s not like I’ve had loads of people bringing me surprise picnics every day.”

Fred raised his eyebrows as he took a second sandwich from the basket. “Not one?”

“Nope.”

“Not even from a gentleman caller?”

“A gentleman caller?” I snorted. “I’m not entirely sure what you think my romantic life is typically like, but I suspect it’s rather duller than what you’ve imagined.”

“Dull?” said Fred, taking out a thermos and two cups. “Have you not been on the receiving end of that horrifying innovation that you refer to as the helicopter kiss?”

An involuntary shudder ran up my spine. “Ugh. Yes. And that’s about the extent of it: a few brief trysts over the summer, mostly focused on kissing-related activities of varying quality.” I could feel my cheeks grow warm as a handful of particular incidents came to mind.

This did not go unnoticed by Fred. His lips curled upward in a positively wicked grin. “Why are you blushing, Lewis?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” I said, taking a bite of my sandwich.

“Oh come off it, you can’t just leave that story there,” he said as he poured two glasses of what looked like lemonade. “I’ll make it a fair exchange: I’ll tell you about my sordid past.”

“D’you really think it’s the best idea to share those sorts of stories in the middle of the common room where anyone can overhear?”

“I suppose that’s a fair point.” He grinned and picked up both cups of lemonade and handed one to me.

“Cheers,” I said, clinking my glass against his.

“But mark my words, Lewis, next time we’re alone and swapping secrets, I expect to hear more about these so-called summer trysts.”

“We’ll see.” There was a good chance he would forget. “Changing the subject now. Where’s George this evening? He must be rather lonely: you’re with me, Bea’s with Devereux, and Lee’s…” I trailed off, feeling rather bad about bringing up Angelina.

Fred either didn’t notice or wanted to steer the subject to different topic. “Didn’t Bea say she was going to dump him?”

I sighed, picking at the crust of my sandwich. “It’s imminent. She doesn’t want to dump him before Valentine’s Day because that happened to her last year and she feels guilty doing it to someone else. But she reckons that if she waits until after the Second Task, she’ll have a few months to avoid him before the Third Task.”

Fred frowned. “I’m not sure that I follow her logic.”

“Oh, neither do I, but she’s set on it.” I shrugged and took another sip of lemonade. “There’s not much you can do once she’s put her mind to something like that.”

“Ah.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “George is in detention, to answer your question.”

“Really?”

He laughed. “Are you genuinely surprised that George is in detention?”

“Of course not. I just can’t think of a time when he’s had detention and you haven’t. Or vice versa.”

He shrugged. “It happens. We pursue independent projects from time to time.”

“Oh? And what independent project was George pursuing when he earned his detention?”

“Borrowing some supplies from the Potions storeroom.”

I gave him a pointed look. “You mean stealing.”

“He prefers to think of it as borrowing with intent to not return.”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course he does. I’m assuming that I probably don’t want to know what he was intending to do with those supplies.”

“Probably not,” said Fred cheerfully. “Plausible deniability and all that.”

I shook my head. “Really, that ought to be a mantra for anyone who spends any amount of time with either one of you.”

He grinned. “You’re not wrong.” He took a sip of lemonade. “I ought to have asked earlier: how are you feeling? You look like you’ve had a little more sleep at least.”

“I slept for twelve hours last night and it was glorious,” I said, sighing happily. “I think the prospect of no extra rounds next week also helps. And the fact the next Valentine’s Day is a year away and I’ll only have to spend one more week of my life comforting sobbing fourth years.”

“I hadn’t realized this was such a dramatic holiday.”

“Oh, it’s absurd.” I took another bite of my sandwich. “The holiday itself is a bit silly to begin with and then the silliness is amplified by people getting worked up about it.”

“Is this a bad time to tell you that I have a very romantic Valentine’s Day surprise planned for after dessert?”

I eyed him skeptically and popped the remaining bit of sandwich into my mouth. “I’ve some questions about this surprise.”

“I think you have some fundamental misunderstanding regarding the notion of what a surprise is.”

I ignored him. “First question: is this a surprise that I will like or a surprise that I will not like, but you will think is very funny? Second question: does it have anything to do with becoming an official fake couple?”

“First answer: it’s _intended_ to be a surprise that you’ll like. Second answer: see my previous statement regarding your understanding of the notion of surprises.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. What’s for dessert?”

Fred laughed. “We haven’t even finished dinner!”

Dinner proceeded in a typical Fred fashion, which is to say he took his bloody time with everything. He chewed slowly and sipped leisurely at his lemonade. He took out other containers full of food and served them at a snail’s pace.

I made several threats and administered many dark looks; he laughed at all of them.

Finally— _finally_ —he took out a tin of chocolate petits fours iced with tiny pink roses that looked almost too pretty and delicate to eat. Impossibly, they tasted even better than they looked—despite my hurry to get to the end of the meal, I found myself chewing slowly, savoring every bite.

When the last petit four had disappeared, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a piece of paper that had been folded into a small, compact square. He handed it to me. My name was scrawled on the front in his untidy script.

“Is this your mysterious, highly romantic surprise?” I asked, turning the paper over in my hands.

He grinned, shrugging. “Open it and you’ll see.”

I pursed my lips and regarded him carefully. “This still seems like it could be a trap.”

“You wound me.”

 “More like I _know_ you,” I said.

He smiled. “Fair enough. But this is not a trap. No explosions or spattering ink or anything like that. Honest.”

I arched my eyebrow. “Stinksap?”

Fred looked shocked. “I would _never_!”

I stared at him for a long moment.

“Well, I might,” he conceded finally. “But not to you, not without cause anyway.”

“This is not reassuring.”

He poked my knee. “We can spend eternity arguing or you can open that note. I worked very hard on it.”

I arched an eyebrow at him. “You’re lucky my curiosity always outweighs my stubbornness.” Carefully, I unfolded the note, holding my breath and waiting for something to happen. I was almost a little disappointed when I encountered nothing but a few lines of print:

 

 

> _Charlotte,_
> 
> _Will you officially be my fake girlfriend*?_
> 
> _*Terms and conditions apply._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Fred_

I had to laugh. So much for worrying about a big, splashy, and uncomfortable announcement: this was uncharacteristically plain.

“I can really tell that you put a lot of effort into this,” I said, smiling.

“You haven’t seen the full extent of this magnificent note.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He nudged my knee. “You’ve got to answer first.”

“Do I need to write it out on formal stationery?”

“Cheeky. Go on, Lewis, play along.”

I sighed. “Yes, of course.”

The note transformed into a flock of tiny paper birds that fluttered off of my hands and into the air. They did a quick circuit around the room, startling a group of first years when they knocked into a table lamp. They returned to form a tight circle a little bit above my head, spinning faster and faster until they exploded in a shower of confetti and rose petals. There was some scattered applause from onlookers, though it seemed like they didn’t quite know what to make of it.

“Told you I worked very hard on it,” said Fred, grinning and plucking a rose petal from my hair.

I smiled. “All right. I take it all back.”

“I feel vindicated.” His eyes flicked around the room and the curious eyes trained upon us. He leaned toward me. “Come on, we’ve got an audience.”

He kissed me in the sort of soft and sweet way that made my pulse flutter in my throat like the entire display wasn’t an elaborate ruse. His hand cupped my cheek and I leaned in further, opening my mouth to him.

He tasted like chocolate.

“Oh bloody hell, Fred.”

We broke apart. Ron was now staring at us from across the common room with a look of horror that is normally reserved for, say, a decomposing rat carcass in your garden shed. Hermione and Harry exchanged a weary look.

“Sod off, Ron, can’t you see I’m busy?” said Fred.

“I think that’s the point, isn’t it?” Ron gestured vaguely at the common room. “You’re in the common room, people are trying to work, you know. You’re being distracting.”

There was a long-suffering sigh from Hermione as she set down her quill and aimed a stern look at Ron. “Ronald. Honestly. _You’re_ the one who’s making a scene about it.”

Ron turned to glare at her. “I think it’s reasonable to expect that you can work in your own common room without seeing your brother snogging some girl.”

Hermione snorted. “Oh that’s brilliant, Ron, now you’re being rude _and_ childish.”

Ron turned back to me, looking mildly apologetic. “Sorry—not that you’re ‘some girl.’ I’m sure you’re very nice. It’s just—he’s my brother.” He made a pained sort of face. “It’s a bit disgusting.”

Harry was observing this exchange with the wary sort of gaze of someone who’d seen Ron lumber into a number of awkward situations. He kicked Ron under the table and shook his head.

“Fred’s disgusting, I mean,” amended Ron. “Not you.”

“I’ve three older sisters,” I said, not quite able to hide the amusement from my face. “I know what you meant.”

Ron looked rather relieved.

“Don’t coddle him, he’s being a prat,” said Fred to me.

“She’s not coddling me, she’s acting like a reasonable human being,” said Ron, indignant. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

“Me? _I_ was minding my business and having a nice evening before you stuck your great big nose into it—”

I exchanged a look with Hermione and Harry and suddenly I understood that this was not the sort of argument that was simply going to resolve on its own.

“All right, I _really_ didn’t want to do this, but the two of you have forced my hand.” I looked at Ron. “Ron, I am very sympathetic to the visceral disgust that you feel from watching your brother kiss a girl.”

“ _Thank_ you, I appreciate that,” said Ron, looking rather vindicated.

“That said, you know very well that this is not the same thing as being disruptive in the common room. I’d suggest you try what worked for me and simply avert your eyes and pretend you’re not related.”

“But—”

“And while I don’t like taking points from my own house, I will do it if I hear another word about this.”

Ron’s mouth hung open for a moment before he closed it, looking rather irritated.

I turned to Fred, who was smirking. “Fred, wipe the smirk off your face or I will wipe it off for you and _not_ in a way that you’ll enjoy.”

Ron snorted, which he hastily disguised as a cough. Fred’s smirk shifted to something a bit more like a smile. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Don’t tempt me.” I nudged his knee. “Why don’t you get your coat and we’ll go for a walk?”

Fred raised his eyebrows and nudged my knee back. “That is completely counter to our plan to sit around the common room and do nothing.”

“Yeah, but I reckon it might be good to have a little distance between you and Ron for the time being.”

Fred looked over at Ron, a slight twitch of irritation quirking his lips downward. “Oh, you’re probably right.”

“I often am. Come on, let’s get this cleared up.”

Five minutes later, we had packed up the picnic and collected our coats. As we passed by Ron, Harry, and Hermione on our way out the portrait hole, Fred leaned over their table.

“Thanks, Ron, now we can be _really_ uninhibited,” he said in a stage whisper. A combination of disgust and irritation warred over Ron’s features.

“Fred, you’ve just lost five points from Gryffindor,” I said before Ron could say anything further.

Fred’s head whipped around and he looked genuinely shocked. “Lewis. From your own _house_?”

“I warned you,” I said, poking him in the chest. “It’s not my fault if you can’t leave well enough alone.”

His hand closed around mine. “I knew it was only a time before you went mad with power.”

“I prefer to think of it as more of a public service.”

He gave me a flirtatious grin and I wasn’t entirely certain if it was for my benefit or for the purpose of further irritating Ron. “Cheeky.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Ron, cradling his head in his hands.

“All right, we are leaving before the two of you completely destroy our chances at the House Cup,” I said, pulling Fred toward the door. I smiled at Ron, Harry, and Hermione. “Have a nice evening.”

Ron grumbled something that sounded a bit like “Not bloody likely.” Hermione huffed and I could hear the start of what sounded like a lecture as the Fat Lady's portrait swung shut behind us.

“I can’t believe you did that,” said Fred, shaking his head. “I’ve half a mind to go and tell McGonagall about this.”

“Yes, please go tell McGonagall about how you were intentionally antagonizing your younger brother,” I said with a wry smile. “I’m sure that will go quite well for you.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been my fake girlfriend for what, ten minutes, and you’ve already turned into a troublemaker.” He exhaled, his eyes glancing heavenward. “I’ve made a horrible mistake.”

I gave him my most charming smile and pecked him on the cheek. “I’m a quick study and I learned from the best.”

“Flatterer.” He grinned, bumping his shoulder against mine. “Where is it that we’re walking, Miss Pert?”

“I dunno, maybe down to the covered bridge? It’s rather lovely this time of evening, you get a nice view of the sunset.”

“Lead the way.”

We passed a fair number of couples as we made our way down to the covered bridge, enough that Fred started assigning point values and treating it like a Valentine’s Day themed I Spy. Part of me was nervous that we might run into Aidan and Genevieve or Lee and Angelina, but my worries were largely quieted by Fred muttering things like, “He had his hand on her bum, that’s twenty-five points” and “That looked a bit like a helicopter kiss. Thirty points for us, minus fifty points for them.”

The sun was low in the sky as we walked down the covered bridge, though it was fairly cloudy and difficult to see all that much.

“All right, Lewis,” he said as we settled down on the stone steps at the end of the bridge. “You made me a promise.”

I was immediately suspicious. “I did?”

“You did,” he said, draping an arm around my shoulders. “We’re alone now and you’ve got to finish telling me about your scandalous summer trysts.”

I heaved the most dramatic sigh I could muster and slouched forward onto my lap. “For Godric’s sake.”

“Come on, you _promised_ ,” he said, laughing.

“Yes, but I was certain that you were going to forget,” I said, bringing my forehead to rest against my knees.

“Double crossing your most trusted ally? Five points from Gryffindor.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Can’t hurt to try.” He poked my cheek and I turned my head to glare at him.

“Why do you even want to know?”

“I’ve told you before: I’m utterly fascinated by the enigma that is Charlotte Lewis.” He rested his elbows on his knees and propped his chin up in his hands.

I rolled my eyes. “I am hardly an enigma.”

“Enigmas always say that.”

“I had someone call me Cold Shower Charlotte last year,” I said dryly. “How exciting do you think my so-called summer trysts can possibly be?”

He raised his eyebrows. “I thought we agreed to consider the source of that comment.”

I sighed and sat up. “Use your deductive reasoning skills, Weasley.” I held up a hand. “Prefect, excellent marks, typically doesn’t date during the school year.” I ticked off each point on a finger. “The most logical assumption has to be the truth.”

“And…?”

“You’re really going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”

He grinned and batted his eyelashes in what I suppose he thought was an endearing sort of manner. “Certainly. Though I’d point out that you have the power to end my incessant prodding.”

I sighed again, making a mental note to never even so much as hint at a secret if I didn’t want to have Fred wheedle it out of me.

“My summer trysts have consisted of: mostly kissing with some awkward fumbling above the waist. And a few failed attempts below. My virginity remains intact.” I shot him a pointed look. “Was that really something that you couldn’t have worked out on your own?”

“Like I said, Lewis, you’re an enigma.” He grinned and draped an arm around my shoulder. “Besides, was that really so difficult?”

“Yes,” I grumbled, scooting away from him.

“Oh, now you’re going to pretend to be cross with me,” he said, scooting over so that I was now stuck between him and the edge of the stairs.

“’Pretending’ seems rather inaccurate,” I said, sending him a very stern look out of the corner of my eye.

He was cheerfully undeterred by this. “You can’t fool me, Lewis. Come on, I promised I’d tell you about my sordid past in exchange and that will make us even.”

I sighed. “Fine. Tell me about your sordid past, Weasley. Spare me no detail.” I made a face as I realized what I’d said. “On second thought, just a summary is fine.”

He laughed. “Well, I regret to inform you that I am no longer a wide-eyed innocent.”

“’Innocent’ is not a phrase that I would use to describe you at any point in your life. I suspect you were misbehaving in the womb.”

He grinned and bumped his shoulder against mine. “That may be, but I’m referring to a more specific kind of innocence.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m afraid my poor parents are going to have to add an entire herd of cattle to my dowry to make sure I stay marriageable.”

“I don’t think grooms traditionally get a dowry.”

“You are ruining my carefully crafted narrative.”

“More like fact checking your hyperbolic monologue.”

“Lewis, are you going to let me share my sordid past with you or are you going to keep interrupting me with your cheeky remarks and dry ripostes?”

“Sorry.” I propped my elbows up on my knees and cradled my head in my hands. “I am listening very intently and hanging on your every word.”

He looked at me skeptically. “You’re being pert again, but I’m going to ignore it for the sake of this riveting tale.” He paused for an unnecessarily long moment. I waited, determined to beat him at his own game.

“Janie Wittman,” he said finally with a flourish of his hand. “The summer before last, in a meadow not too far from my house. I was deflowered among the flowers.” He cocked an eyebrow. “It was quite poetic.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale. Who is this Janie Wittman? She’s not a Hogwarts student, is she?”

He shook his head. “Visiting niece of one of our neighbors. I haven’t really seen her since—it was sort of a brief thing between us.” He shrugged. “I suppose that’s not very romantic, but it is what it is.”

I wrinkled my nose. “I dunno, I’ve always thought the entire concept of losing your virginity is rather unromantic to begin with.”

“How d’you mean?”

“Oh, people always talk about it like it’s this significant thing and I suppose it is but…I mean, realistically speaking, it’s probably going to be rather mediocre at best, right?”

He chuckled. “That’s a rather grim view.”

“Well, think about it: how good is anyone at anything on their first go?”

He gave me a smirk that was a little too self-satisfied. “Well, Lewis, some of us are naturally talented, you know.”

I arched an eyebrow at him. “You mean to tell me that your first attempt at sex represents the absolute peak of your ability?”

“Well, no,” he conceded, with some reluctance. “There have been significant improvements.”

“I rest my case.” I sighed and thought for a moment. “Part of me thinks that it’d almost be easier to just get it over with, you know?”

A slow, somewhat wicked sort of grin started to spread across Fred’s face and I suddenly saw the trap that I’d stepped into.

“That was _not_ an advertisement for a volunteer,” I said, heat rising in my cheeks.

“Ah, _now_ your ears are going pink,” he said, tapping the edge of my ear. “I was wondering when that would happen.”

I swatted his hand away. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Not to worry, love, I’ll only tease you about it for the next four to six weeks.”

I groaned and slouched forward onto my lap again, cradling my head in my hands. Fred chuckled.

“Come on, Lewis, you’re spoiling this very romantic sunset.”

“You were the one who just had to know allllll about my romantic life,” I said, turning my head to scowl at him from my slouch.

“Oh, come now.” He tapped me on the nose. “I told you about mine as well, it’s a fair exchange.”

“Debatable."

“You can ask me a question then,” he said. “Something highly personal and embarrassing.”

I sat up and thought for a moment, lips pursed.

“Have you ever been in love?” tumbled out of my mouth before I could give much thought to it. For a moment, I thought maybe I’d gone too far, that I’d asked about something too intimate for our strange sort of relationship to allow. But he merely looked thoughtful, worrying his lower lip between his teeth.

“Not properly,” he said after a moment. “I think I could be, with Angelina, if she’d have me.” He looked at me, his eyes oddly serious. “What about you?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I haven’t really had many opportunities.”

He draped an arm around my shoulders and I leaned into him, resting my head in the crook of his neck. “Well, whoever seizes that opportunity would be quite lucky to have you, Charlotte.”

“You as well.”

We were quiet for a long moment, watching the sun sink lower in the sky.

“This is becoming a theme,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Baring our souls and watching sunsets.”

He chuckled. “I suppose it is. It’s good practice for the real thing, yeah? We’ll be the envy of the school, now that we know all the secluded and romantic places to watch the sunset. Where shall we try next? The boathouse?”

It took me nearly ten minutes to stop laughing long enough to explain myself.

* * *

We stayed out on the covered bridge until the combined heat from our bodies wasn’t quite enough to keep my teeth from chattering. We walked back into the castle, stamping feeling back into our feet as we strolled through the corridors and chatting quietly as we took a circuitous path back to Gryffindor Tower. 

We were passing an empty classroom when a flutter of movement attracted my eyes. The door was slightly ajar, enough to see two shadowy figures pressed against a wall. And though the classroom was dark, it wasn’t so dark that you couldn’t tell it was Aidan and Genevieve, not so dark that you couldn’t see that his right hand had disappeared under the hem of her skirt, not so dark that you couldn’t see her head thrown back with her eyes shut, lips parted.

I sucked in a deep breath and averted my eyes, quickening my pace as we walked by, trying not to hear the soft sighs that were coming through the open door.

“All right?” said Fred quietly as soon as we’d turned the corner.

“Not really.”

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know.” My mind was racing, trying to find something to talk about but I kept coming up with blanks, blanks that my brain helpfully filled in with the image of Aidan’s hands all over Genevieve. I was seized by a sort of lonely feeling, a particular kind of sadness that emphasized all the ways that I felt unwanted and discarded, the sort of feeling that made me feel a little bit reckless, like a stupid risk was worth it if I could feel like I was wanted if only for just a moment.

“Just—just kiss me.”

To Fred’s credit, he didn’t smirk or offer a smart remark. For all his bravado and devil-may-care attitude, he had an innate sense of when being kind would matter most and his ability to read me was spot on in a way that I still didn’t quite understand. So he simply cupped my face in his hands and kissed me without comment.

It started off like any other kiss, but this time I was the one to pull him backward so that I was pressed between him and the wall. I was the one to drag my teeth across his lower lip until he sucked in a shuddering breath and pulled my hips flush against him, eliminating the remaining distance between us. Instead of keeping a hold on my senses, I was tangling my fingers in his hair and arching my back against him.

It occurred to me that one of us ought to be keeping our head on, one of us ought to be exhibiting some restraint, but these thoughts were drowned out by the part of me that just wanted to push Aidan out of my mind completely. And Fred followed my wild and reckless lead because he was bold and daring and unafraid of being hurt. His fingers nimbly unfastened the buttons on my coat and pushed my scarf away so that his lips could trail along my jaw and down the column of my neck and throat, taking full advantage of the wide neck of my sweater. He located a particular point on my collarbone that sent shivers up my spine and elicited some combination of a whimper and a sigh. He chuckled against my neck and I pulled him back into a kiss before he could offer a smart remark.

I would have done something stupid if we weren’t interrupted when we were, what with the tension that was starting to coil in my hips and belly and the way my fingers were itching for the heat of bare skin. That much is clear to me now. Twenty minutes into that kiss and it didn’t matter that Fred wasn’t Aidan. It didn’t matter that Fred was my fake boyfriend and had no romantic interest in me: I was feeling something other than sadness and that was enough to trick my brain into not thinking about Aidan’s hands all over Genevieve and the two-part harmony of their sighs and groans.

There would be a point when a timely interruption would not save me from doing something stupid. But we were not yet at that point.

Instead, the sound of two pairs of footsteps drawing nearer startled me enough that I opened my eyes just a little, just enough that I could see who was approaching.

It was Aidan and Genevieve. Of course it was. Aidan’s hand was planted firmly on her hip, his bedroom eyes turned on her. He didn’t even really seem to register that Fred and I were there, pressed together against the wall.

But Genevieve noticed.

And that is what brought me crashing back to myself. A genuine smile broke out on Genevieve’s face when she realized it was Fred and me, the sort of smile you’d give if you saw a good friend snogging someone that they fancied. She was happy to see us together, happy for _me_. And here I was, engaged in a plot to make her boyfriend fall in love with me.

I didn’t realize that I was going to cry until their footsteps faded and silent tears began streaming down my cheeks.

Fred broke away from me, his expression full of concern.

“Sorry,” I whispered.

“Hey now. None of that,” he said firmly, wrapping his arms around me and drawing me to him. I pressed my cheek against his chest, listening to the steadying beat of his heart.

“I’ve got to stop weeping on you about stupid things. That is also becoming a theme.”

“As I’ve explained previously, I’m washable.” His voice lowered. “And it’s not stupid. I know how bloody awful it is.”

“You know what makes it worse? She’s nice. Genevieve, I mean.” I took a deep and shuddering breath. “Maybe I’m the villain in this story, you know?”

“You’re absolutely not a villain.” His arms tightened around me. “What sort of villain weeps on her co-conspirator and worries that she’s a villain?”

I gave a weak laugh. “Not a very good one. Maybe I’m just a horrible villain.”

Fred chuckled. “Lewis, I can’t imagine you being horrible at something. You’d probably spend hours studying villainy. You’d end up at the top of your villain class. In fact, it’s probably good you’re not a villain, you’d be a menace.”

A laugh—a genuine laugh—escaped my lips and I wiped my eyes with the corner of my sleeve. “Thank you,” I said quietly.

“Not at all.”

The reality of the last half hour sank in and I could feel my cheeks flushing in a kind of delayed embarrassment.

“Sorry about earlier,” I said. “That—erm—got rather…”

His laugh rumbled against my ear. “Did I not predict that you would be ravishing me in the corridor?”

I buried my face against his chest. “Oh stop it, you’re only making it worse.”

He laughed again and gently extricated himself from my grip, taking a step back and holding my face in his hands. “Charlotte. It’s fine. You worry too much.”

My cheeks were burning but I managed to meet his gaze. He smiled at me, but there was something gentle in his expression. I offered a grim approximation of a smile in return.

“I know, I suppose…” I shut my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to build up that wall inside of me once more. “…I suppose I wanted to feel _something_ …and I—” I trailed off and opened my eyes. “I dunno if that if that makes any sense.”

His smile was soft and a little bit sad. “Yeah. It does.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Come on, let’s go back to the common room and offend Ron’s delicate sensibilities with our displays of affection.”

I sighed. “Fred, I’m willing to be your fake girlfriend, but I am drawing the line at being a weapon in your sibling rivalry.”

“Oh come off it, it’ll be fun.”

“For _you_.”

We bickered playfully all the way back to the common room, only to find that Ron had departed for parts unknown. We sat down on one of the couches, Fred draping his arm around my shoulder while I settled myself against him, tucking my head into the crook of his neck. I closed my eyes, enjoying the pleasant combination of the heat of the fire and the warmth of Fred, trying not to let my mind wander back to that corridor.

“Are we reaching the point where I stare at you while you sleep?” he asked.

I cracked an eye open. “I thought we agreed that was not going to be a component of this excursion.”

“Only if you want to disappoint me and break my heart.” 

I shut my eyes. “Life is disappointment, Weasley.”

“Speaking of disappointment, Bea just walked in and she looks unhappy.”

I opened my eyes. Sure enough, Bea was coming through the portrait hole, dressed in her Valentine’s Day finery and looking rather put out. She caught my eye and changed her trajectory, flopping into an armchair next to the couch.

“Champagne and the boathouse?” I said.

“ _Flat_ champagne and a row at the boathouse, which was interrupted by the timely arrival of Hagrid,” she corrected me. “And George. Who’s serving his detention with Hagrid.”

I wasn’t sure whether I should laugh or be horrified. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” She gave a grim sort of smile. “Luckily, Hagrid and Devereux have a shared interest in magical creatures and they got to chatting about various techniques for trapping venomous tadpoles, so Hagrid didn’t notice the bottle of champagne and by the time he left, Devereux had mostly forgotten what we’d been arguing about.”

“Bea, I know that this is probably of little consolation, but I reckon you might have set a world record for the worst Valentine’s Day date in history,” said Fred solemnly.

Bea laughed. “I know I gave Charlotte a hard time about it, but I think the two of you had the right idea. Sitting around the common room doing nothing sounds rather glorious at the moment. I don’t think I’ll regain feeling in my toes for the next three days.” She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Only ten more days of this.”

I made a face. “Are you sure you want to wait until after the Second Task?”

Bea sighed rather grumpily. “Yes. I nearly froze to death on a bloody boathouse for my stupid principles. Another ten days won’t kill me.” She groaned. “Though it does sound like an eternity.”

“Well. At least you didn’t have to hear anything about a flesh broomstick,” I said.

She groaned. “No, at least I had that.” She heaved another sigh. “Well, I’m going to leave the two of you to your sensible and romantic evening. I think I’ll go submerge myself in the bath for a while to see if I can defrost.” Her gaze suddenly turned stern. “But see to it that you behave yourselves.”

“Bea, you do not need to worry about Charlotte and I causing a scandal,” said Fred. “She officially agreed to be my girlfriend earlier this evening, so everything is all sorted as far as paperwork.”

“ _Finally_!” exclaimed Bea, loudly enough that she startled a group of second years. “My goodness, it took you long enough. And you’ve won me some money as well.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “You were betting on this?”

“Of course.” Bea grinned. “George and I had a friendly wager going.”

I sighed. “I hope you at least got something good out of it.”

“Five Galleons and a butterbeer next Hogsmeade weekend.” She sprang to her feet. “Well, I’m pleased for you both. Not just because you won me a bet, but—” She gave us a small smile. “—I needed to hear some good news after tonight.”

“Happy to oblige,” said Fred.

She smiled once more before heading upstairs to the dormitory. Fred and I were both quiet for a long minute.

“I almost feel a little guilty,” he said quietly, his fingers fiddling with the ends of my hair.

I swallowed. “Yeah. That’s probably the worst part about this entire plan.”

I was wrong, of course. You probably know this. You are probably wondering when the cracks in this plan will actually materialize into the disaster that I keep talking about. Perhaps you are wishing that I would simply get on with it already.

The thing is, I’m a rather intentional person (all evidence to the contrary aside). And in working out the puzzle of what happened between me and Fred Weasley, I find myself lingering on these details: a kiss, a look, a secret shared in the cold of winter. I pick them up and hold them in my hands, turning them over and over, these artifacts in the anatomy of a spectacular disaster. Perhaps if I look at them long enough, I’ll understand what happened, I’ll find a way to forgive or excuse myself.

I will tell you this, though: that summer is when things began to fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thank you all so much for reviewing, following, favoriting, etc.! Seriously, every alert I get from FF.net or AO3 just warms my heart.
> 
> Another massive chapter! This one also (unexpectedly) clocked in at over 10K words. Funny thing is, I was actually thinking this one was going to be a bit shorter and cover a little more time, but noooooo. I feel pretty good about this chapter, but also have some mixed feelings, so please tell me what you think!
> 
> I keep forgetting to say this—if you are a fan of George/OC as I am, you need to go read A Lid for Every Pot, George Weasley by BooksVCigarettes, which is super delightful. It’s on AO3 and FF.net. I’m always on the lookout for excellent fanfic about the Weasley twins, so if you’ve got recommendations, let me know!
> 
> Timeline for the next update: I’m hoping for mid to late July, if not earlier!


	12. Only Wondering

My first week as Fred Weasley’s official fake girlfriend was a little strange.

It wasn’t strange in a bad way—it was just a collection of little changes that sometimes caught me off guard and made my cheeks flush (which Fred noticed, of course. He usually noticed anything that yielded an opportunity to tease me). As my fake boyfriend, he was more apt to drape an arm around the back of my chair during class and take my hand in the corridors; he was more likely to sit with me during meals and spend time with me during our free periods or in the evenings after classes. 

He was more likely to try to steal a kiss or steal me away for clandestine snogging.

After what had happened on Valentine’s Day, I was more inclined to keep him at arm’s length—in both the literal and figurative sense, I suppose. The more that I thought about that particular incident, the more embarrassed I became; the more embarrassed I became, the more determined I was to not repeat the same stupid mistake. And it was a stupid mistake, I told myself repeatedly. Who sees the object of their affections in an intimate situation with someone else and immediately flings herself into the next set of open arms?

It occurred to me that this was, in fact, a key plot point in a good number of romances and romantic comedies. So perhaps it wasn’t stupid in the sense that it was utterly unusual or unheard of for someone to do this. It was just stupid in the sense that it was a very bad idea. 

And it was an _extremely_ bad idea. There was no denying that. For all of Fred’s gentle advice to stop worrying, I knew that we were treading a very dangerous line. When I thought about it at the time, I couldn’t pinpoint precisely why I was worried. The possibility of me accidentally falling in love with Fred or vice versa seemed so unlikely that it was laughable: unlikely friends, certainly, but anything more? It was absurd.

But expanding our physical relationship when our goal was to end up with other people felt a bit like tempting fate. Beyond the (admittedly) enjoyable aspects, no good could come of it. And though I kept telling myself I was tired of being careful, this seemed like something that merited a good deal of caution. 

So I was careful when he pulled me into an empty classroom during our free period and when he interrupted my prefect rounds to abscond with me into a convenient alcove. I didn’t drag my teeth along his lower lip or press my hips against him. I took more care to avoid Aidan and Genevieve. I kept a firm grip on my senses.

Or at least I tried to, at the start.

And for his part, Fred was very good about following my lead. He never tried to escalate our contact beyond kissing. At the very most, he might gently poke fun at my fretting about it, but it never felt coercive or manipulative. I got the sense that he had no concerns about going too far, but that he was willing to follow as far as I would lead. To him, it was just fun: there were no strings attached, no disappointments, or upsets.

There were a few times when I wondered what it might be like, going farther than we had. But that’s all it was: wondering. Not wishing, hoping, or dreaming: only wondering. And it was the sort of wondering that immediately made me feel strange and embarrassed that the thought had even occurred to me. It was a stupid idea for so many reasons: it wasn’t even worth entertaining as an idle thought experiment.

But still. The thought was there.

That should have been a clue.

But I’ll get to that.

* * *

Our first fake date as an official couple turned out to be a double date. With Aidan and Genevieve. 

This is because Fred is a bloody traitor.

It was our free period on Thursday, which meant that I was in the library studying and Fred was in the library not studying. He had, at my behest, at least taken out a roll of parchment and a quill. In theory, this was meant to be used to write his Herbology essay; in practice, he had written his name and the title of the assignment and was entertaining himself by doodling and charming said doodles to move around on the page.

“You know,” I said, looking up from my Transfiguration textbook, “you could nearly be done by now if you’d actually used your time appropriately.”

“Instead, I have this glorious masterpiece,” he said, grinning and gesturing to the page where a team of stick figures was playing a vigorous game of Quidditch.

 I arched an eyebrow. “You know, a crueler person than I would have no hesitation about casting _Finite_ on that and making you apply yourself.” 

Fred mirrored my expression, raising an eyebrow and folding his arms over his chest. “Are you advocating for the destruction of art, Lewis?” 

“Not at all, I’m merely pointing out that you ought to appreciate me more than you do.”

He poked my shoulder. “Oh, go on, you know I adore you.”

Genevieve came round the corner just then, a stray piece of parchment clutched in her hands, her eyes scanning the shelves. I lowered my eyes back to my Transfiguration textbook, trying not to think about the fact that the last time I’d seen her, Aidan had his hand up her skirt. 

“Adoration and appreciation are two entirely different things,” I said to Fred, trying to keep my voice light and unconcerned.

“Doesn’t adoration imply appreciation?” asked Fred.

“Not necessarily.”

“Oh, now you’re just being difficult on purpose.”

I looked up from my textbook. “Fred Weasley, I once tried reading the dictionary for fun. Do you _really_ want to argue semantics with me? Because I’m fairly certain you will lose.”

Fred looked as though I’d just admitted to killing people with a dictionary for fun. “ _Lewis_. That is utterly horrifying.”

I shrugged, turning back to my book. “I only made it through E. It was rather dull, even for me.”

I heard a chair scrape against the floor and looked up. Genevieve was taking a seat at our table, her green eyes sparkling. “So I see that the rumors are true.”

Fred sighed. “The rumor about Charlotte reading the dictionary? Unfortunately. I swear I had no inkling of this when I asked her to be my girlfriend. I feel betrayed.”

I kicked him under the table. “He’s exaggerating. I tried it once and got through E. It was during the summer holiday and I was terribly bored.” 

“That just makes it worse!” groaned Fred, burying his head in his arms. “Oh my poor heart.” 

Genevieve laughed. “I was referring to the rumor about the two of you being together.”

I eyed Fred. “Well, that may change in the near to immediate future.” 

Fred sat up and draped an arm around the back of my chair. “She doesn’t mean it, she’s utterly mad about me.”

Genevieve smiled at me as I rolled my eyes. “Well, I’m glad to see that worked out for the two of you. You make a good couple.”

“Thanks, that’s sweet of you to say.” I tried very hard to ignore the prickling sensation of guilt that was sliding up the back of my throat. Fred squeezed my shoulder. I smiled brightly at Genevieve. Time to change the subject. “Any exciting plans for the weekend?”

“Nothing yet.” She smiled and I knew before she said anything that she was going to say something about Aidan. So much for changing the subject. “Aidan’s got some Muggle board game that he’s desperate to play, so I imagine we’ll be trying to recruit people for that adventure.”

“What sort of board game?” asked Fred a little too casually. Suddenly and with horrifying clarity, I could see what he intended to do. I kicked him under the table. He kicked me back in a way that seemed to say, _I’m ignoring you, Lewis, this is for your own good_.

“Dunno, something to do with trading cards and such,” said Genevieve, rolling her eyes. “Aidan claims it’s quite fun, even though there’s no magic.” Her eyes lit up. “You should join us. If you don’t have plans already, that is.”

“No, we don’t,” said Fred, before I could even begin to formulate an excuse. “Sounds like a laugh.” 

I tried to smile like my stomach wasn’t tying itself into knots. “Yeah, that sounds great.” 

I was going to kill Fred.

“Perfect.” Genevieve smiled. “I’ll speak to Aidan about it and let you know about the details tomorrow.”

“Brilliant,” said Fred.

Genevieve grinned and stood up. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it, but I’m looking forward to this!”

My cheeks were beginning to hurt from the effort of smiling. “Yes. Wonderful.”

As Genevieve walked away, I picked up Fred’s quill and wrote on the corner of Fred’s parchment: _I am going to kill you._

He gave a disappointed sigh. “Lewis. Now I _certainly_ won’t be able to turn this in.” He plucked the quill from my hand. “And really, if you’re going to make threats, you ought to not leave a paper trail. Gets a bit messy that way.” 

“No jury in the world would convict me,” I hissed under my breath. “I can’t _believe_ you did that.”

The smile faded from Fred’s face, replaced with an expression that was a little softer. “It was for your own good,” he said quietly. 

“I question your definition of ‘good.’”

“Charlotte.” He leaned forward, taking my hands in his, his thumbs running over my knuckles. To an observer, it might look like we were having an intimate and romantic sort of moment. “I told you you’ve got to stop avoiding him.”

I pressed my lips into a thin, hard line.

His voice was low and soft as he continued. “You don’t give up so easily. Don’t give up on this.” 

I closed my eyes and leaned my head against his shoulder. He was right. I hate it when he’s right.

He squeezed my shoulder. “Come on. You’re tough. If I got through Angelina and Lee at Hogsmeade, you can get through this.”

“I’m still mad at you,” I said, sitting up and picking up my textbook.

He tugged on a lock of my hair. “No, you’re not.”

I gave him the sternest look I could muster.

“Well, maybe a little,” he conceded, grinning. “You’ll get over it soon enough.” He leaned in, his lips so close they nearly grazed my ear and send a ghost of a shiver up my spine. “Besides, you know I’m right.”

“And you know I’d never admit it if you were.”

He grinned and pressed a kiss to my temple. “Course not.”

“You’re going to have to let me pick the next four dates for this,” I said. “And they’re all going to be boring.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment and then shrugged. “I suppose that’s fair.”

I turned back to my textbook. He left his arm draped over the back of my chair and I found that I didn’t really mind.

* * *

Saturday night found me in the Gryffindor common room, trying to do everything possible to not pace about like a madwoman while I waited for the hour to strike seven.

“You need to relax,” said Fred. We were sitting together at one of the tables. I had my Potions textbook out, but I wasn’t really studying. Neither was Fred, but that was typical.

“I am relaxed,” I said, staring blankly at the illustration in front of me.

“Really? Why is it that you’ve mangled that piece of parchment then?” asked Fred pointedly.

I looked at my hands in my lap, which were knotted around a twisted piece of parchment that I’d been using to mark my place in my book. I sighed and chucked it back on the table.

“Well, if I’m not relaxed, it’s your fault,” I grumbled.

He reached over and closed my textbook. “Why don’t we do something else?”

I slouched back in my chair, folding my arms over my chest. “The only thing you’ve suggested has been snogging in the common room and I know that you’re only suggesting that to get a rise out of Ron.”

“That is merely one of the benefits of that particular course of action,” said Fred. “You’re neglecting to note that it helps establish our narrative.”

“Yes, but I also know you well enough to suss out that if you’re coincidentally suggesting snogging when your brother is sitting mere tables away, then it’s not actually a coincidence.” My face softened as I looked at the younger Weasley, who was currently bent over a book and whispering to Harry and Hermione. “Besides, he’s made a genuine effort. It’s not fair of you to try to spoil it.”

“Oh go on, don’t tell me you’ve gone all soft for ickle Ronniekins,” groaned Fred. “I’ve half a mind to speak to McGonagall about your judgment.”

“My judgment is quite sound, thank you.”

“You were going to give him house points on Tuesday for not being a prat when I kissed you goodnight.”

“Have you utterly no empathy?” I asked. “You have older brothers, surely you remember seeing them kissing a girl in the corridors or in the common room. It’s horrifying.”

“Yes, but unlike Ron, I wasn’t a prat about it. I merely excused myself to my dormitory where I could vomit in peace. No one ever gave me house points for that.” He quirked an eyebrow at me.

“No one’s ever given you house points for anything,” I corrected him, not quite able to hide the smirk that was pulling at my lips. 

“That’s an exaggeration and you know it,” he said, slapping his hand on the table. He pointed at me. “You’ll be hearing from my solicitor.”

“I’ve a feeling your solicitor is just you wearing an ascot.”

“It’s George, actually.” He grinned, leaning back in his chair. “You don’t have to do that sort of thing when you’ve got a twin.” He checked his watch. “We could leave now if we walk quite slowly and take an extremely circuitous route.”

I sighed. “We might as well. Might help me lose some of this nervous energy.”

“Come on, then.”

I stood and followed him out of the common room, glancing at the clock as I left. 

 “We could go down to the grounds,” I suggested once we were out in the corridor. “That would likely take us long enough.”

“I had a different detour in mind.” Fred’s eyes were twinkling in a way that immediately made me suspicious. Suddenly, he was pulling me into one of those stone arches and the pieces clicked into place.

“Really, Fred?”

“We need to build a narrative, Lewis,” he said, drawing me to him. “And you’ve got nervous energy to burn. Two birds, one stone.”

I sighed, leaning my back against the wall. “You’re a traitor, Fred Weasley.”

“I might’ve misled you,” he said, grinning. “But it was for your own good.”

“I’m not sure you’re the best judge of that.”

“Oh stop grousing and kiss me.”

I opened my mouth to argue and he leaned in and kissed me, his hands cupping my cheeks, tilting my head back, his mouth slanting over mine. I gave in for a moment, my arms wrapping around his neck and my tongue sliding past his lips. But then I remembered that we were having a discussion of sorts and I had been trying to make a point. I broke away from him.

“You know, you’re not playing by the rules,” I said. It was difficult to muster a very stern expression with my arms around his neck like this, but I made a respectable effort.

He sighed. “Lewis.”

“You’re not. You can’t just interrupt me with kissing just because you don’t want to hear what I have to—”

He was kissing me again. “See, that’s where you’re mistaken,” he said, pulling back for just a second. “I _can_ do that.” He kissed me. “See? I’m doing it right now.” Another kiss.

I pulled away. “Once again, you’re trying to argue semantics with me and once again, you are going to lose because you are making the assumption that ‘can’ means ‘should’ and—”

He’d caught me again. It would help, I noted as his fingers tangled in my hair, if my knee jerk reaction wasn’t to lean into the kiss. I pulled away again.

“You are truly underestimating my tenacity and determination.”

He sighed. “Lewis.”

“Don’t you ‘Lewis’ me, you know I’m right.”

He grinned at me in the sort of way that made me immediately think that he was up to no good. “All right, I didn’t think I was going to have to do this, but desperate times and all.”

And before I could even begin to work out that little cipher, he leaned in and caught my earlobe between his lips.

“I-I can still talk,” I said, trying to act like I wasn’t in the process of turning into putty.

He pulled his lips away long enough to say, “Come off it, Lewis, we both know you aren’t going to.”

And then he was dragging his teeth gently along my earlobe and suddenly I _was_ putty and whatever it was I was going to say just didn’t seem important. And when he pulled away from my ear to kiss me again—wearing a stupid smirk on his lips, of course—I found that I didn’t really want to interrupt because really all I wanted to do at the moment was just let him kiss me. 

So I did.

An entire lifetime later, Fred pulled away from me and looked at his watch.

“We’re five minutes late,” he said.

“Shit.” Suddenly, all that nervous energy came rushing back. “This is all your fault, you know.”

“I take full responsibility,” he said, not sounding at all sorry. “I will explain to Aidan and Genevieve that we are late because we lost track of time snogging in the corridor.”

“You will do no such thing.”

His mouth pulled into a sly sort of smirk. “I dunno, Lewis, what’s it worth to you?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “If you’re trying to tease me, it’s not funny.”

He grinned. “Oh, go on, you know I’d never betray you.” He glanced at his watch again. “Now we’re six minutes late.”

I sighed and grabbed his hand, dragging him out of the alcove. “Come on.”

We walked quickly through the corridors and found Genevieve waiting for us outside of a little room near the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. She beamed when she saw us approaching.

“There you are. Did you have difficulty finding it?”

“No, we’re just a little disorganized,” I said before Fred could so much as get a word in. I frowned at the door. “Is this always here, though? I don’t think I’ve noticed it.”

“Yes and no,” said Genevieve, opening the door and motioning us in. “It’s a bit of a trick to find—I feel like I always end up pacing the corridor for a time—but it turns up eventually. It’s a strange thing.”

We were in a small, cozy sort of room that reminded me of a slightly smaller version of the Gryffindor common room. Two squashy couches sat across from each other, a low coffee table in between them. A fire crackled merrily in a small stone hearth. Bookshelves lined one side of the room.

Aidan sat on one of the couches, poring over a little booklet, a game board and some cards set out in front of him. He looked up when we walked in, running a hand through his hair to brush it out of his face.

“Charlotte, Fred,” he said, smiling. My stomach tied itself into a series of knots. “Glad you could make it.”

“Sorry we’re late,” I said, trying to pretend that the sinking feeling in my stomach was just embarrassment that we were late.

“It’s no trouble,” said Aidan as Fred and I sat down on the couch opposite him.

“He was just puttering about with the setup anyway,” said Genevieve, taking a seat next to Aidan. She picked up a tin that had been sitting on the table and offered it to us. “I brought shortbread.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I took a piece of shortbread. “Are you always equipped with baked goods, or have I just been very fortunate?”

She gave me a sly smile. “It’s probably more often than not, honestly. I have a slight sweet tooth.”

“She brought scones to the library when I helped her with her essay,” I said to Fred.

Fred gasped. “Food in the _library_?” He gave me a very stern look. “This is not behavior befitting a prefect. We’re going to have to report you now.”

Aidan grinned. “Oh, I’m sure we can let this one slide, yeah? Didn’t harm anyone.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Careful, Kilbourne, you could lose your badge covering up for her.”

“I could never betray a fellow prefect,” said Aidan. He smiled and winked at me and the knots in my stomach abruptly turned to butterflies. “Charlotte knows, it’s part of our secret prefect code.”

I looked at Fred. “It’s true.”

Fred sighed. “The whole system is corrupt. We’re going to have to overthrow it and start over.”

“Well, in the interim,” said Genevieve, leaning over the game board, “I suppose we can have a go at this game.”

“Right,” said Aidan, cracking his knuckles. “So the rules are rather simple…”

As it turns out, Aidan’s definition of “rather simple” was perhaps more accurately put as “rather simple to a Ravenclaw, extraordinarily complicated to everyone else.” But we picked up on it eventually, albeit slowly and Aidan was quite patient and happy to explain the rules when we faltered. The object of the game was to establish an empire of sorts—something that Aidan said Muggles seemed to like in their games—and it quickly turned into a rather spirited competition. Genevieve ended up winning thanks to her surprisingly vicious strategy, though the rest of us gave her a run for her money. It was nearing ten o’clock when the game ended.

Genevieve yawned and looked at Aidan, her hand slipping up around his neck, her fingers curling in his hair. The peaceful, easy sort of lull I’d managed to trick myself into shattered as I remembered why we were here and what I was trying to accomplish.

“We should probably turn in,” said Genevieve, smiling at Aidan in such a way that I knew that they would be sneaking off somewhere secluded first. My mind flashed back to his hand up her skirt in the dark of the empty classroom and I bit down hard on my tongue.

“Right,” said Aidan. He waved his wand and all the various pieces and cards zoomed neatly back into the game box. “But this was fun, we ought to do it again sometime, yeah?”

“Of course,” said Fred.

My smile felt pasted on, but neither Aidan nor Genevieve seemed to notice. “Sounds lovely.”

Genevieve’s smile turned rather sly. “Nobody really uses this room…” she said, trailing off, her eyebrows rising. “If you two want to stay for a little longer…to talk.”

“Well, we use it sometimes,” Aidan corrected her, tickling the sides of her stomach.

Genevieve squealed and batted his hands away, but she didn’t protest when his arm went round her waist. “We have some options that are more convenient to our respective common rooms,” she said in a low voice. She looked up at me, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “I’m sorry, he’s quite dense sometimes.” The sly smile was back again. “But…you know. Use the room if you’d like.”

My cheeks were burning and I felt queasy. I smiled back at her, trying to look like I was some combination of embarrassed and grateful. “Thanks.”

“We could probably do with a chat,” said Fred, smirking a little too much for my liking. “Always good to talk. Often. And thoroughly.”

I wasn’t entirely sure if I was annoyed with him or grateful that he was trying to defuse my own sort of panicked tension.

“Well, we’ll leave you to it,” said Aidan, grinning and winking at Fred in a sort of way that made me feel like any feelings he ever had for me were well and truly extinguished. He stood, offering a hand to Genevieve. “Come on, love, we’ve got _conversations_ to enjoy…”

Genevieve rolled her eyes and swatted at him, picking up the game. She caught my eye and grinned. “I’ll leave the shortbread for you.”

I felt sick. “Thanks.”

Genevieve smiled at me one last time before slipping her hand into Aidan’s and walking out of the room.

“You did well,” said Fred as soon as the door shut behind them.

I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, my shoulders slumping as I sank back into the couch. “I feel like an absolute monster.”

“You are absolutely not.”

“I can’t help but feel like it.” I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths.

“What’re you thinking about?” asked Fred quietly.

“I just…everything. That they’re probably going off to kiss in some dark corner and fumble around. That I’m a monster for doing this, for hoping that he’ll choose me over her.” My hands were twisting in my lap. “That I’m the sort of person who’s hoping he’ll split up with her and she’s the sort of person who gives up a perfectly good snogging room and leaves shortbread.”

“Charlotte.” His hands were covering mine, gently easing them apart, threading his fingers through mine. “Slow down. Breathe.”

My heart was pounding and my breath was coming in short and shallow gasps. I shut my eyes again and took a deep breath in through my nose. Hold for a count of eight. Out through my mouth. Fred’s thumb was rubbing small circles on the back of my hand. I could smell the faint aroma of sandalwood and citrus.

“How do you not feel like this?” I asked after a moment, after my words felt more certain and my heart pounded less wildly.

“I do. Sometimes.” I looked up at him and he shrugged. “Not often, but sometimes.”

“What do you do about it?”

He laughed quietly. “Try not to think about it. Try to justify it. Angelina and I are clearly meant for each other, Lee’s only going to be a passing fancy, that sort of thing.” Another quiet laugh. “You know. Healthy things like that.”

I nodded, chewing thoughtfully on my lower lip.

“What do you want to do about it?” he said after a moment. “What will help?”

I sighed. “I don’t really know. I haven’t found a good strategy yet.”

This was a lie. I wanted him to kiss me. Kissing was a surefire way to keep my mind off things, to help me feel something other than that grating sense of sadness. But kissing had its own risks when I was feeling hurt and unwanted; kissing had led me to lose my grip on my senses when I’d felt that way previously. I wasn’t under the illusion that wouldn’t happen again, especially in a private room with a comfortable couch and no interruptions in sight.

“You look like you’re thinking too much,” he said.

“I usually am, you know that.”

I looked up at him and found he was looking at me carefully, studying my features, the furrow in my brow, the slump of my shoulders. His gaze slid back to my eyes and something seemed to resolve.

“C’mon, Lewis.” He reached for me, pulling me into his lap, lowering his mouth to my neck, lingering over the pulse point in my throat. “Enough of that,” he mumbled against my skin.

Like I said: I wasn’t under the illusion that I wasn’t going to lose track of myself, but I was still surprised by how my thinking went a little blurry the moment his lips grazed my neck. It was going to be fine, I told myself. Surely I was overthinking this.

Before I could give much thought to that pretty lie, my lips were seeking his and my eyes were sliding shut. His mouth moved slowly against mine, his tongue ghosting along the edge of my lower lip before meeting mine in a deliberate sort of rhythm that was equally perfect and maddening.

I was shifting to settle myself more comfortably in his lap, one knee on either side of his hips. We’d never done anything quite like this before and I suppose it was a little more intimate, but our hips were still far enough apart. It’s not like I was rocking against him, implying a more intimate act. It was strictly about comfort. It was much more comfortable this way. For both of us. Not just me.

The hem of my shirt had ridden up slightly due to the position I was in. It wasn’t a lot—just enough to expose a small sliver of skin, enough so that when Fred’s hands went to my waist, one of his fingertips grazed my skin.

I couldn’t help the sharp intake of breath. I knew he noticed because I could feel him smile against my lips, probably the same sort of smug smirk that had led me to dock house points last week. He didn’t move his hand—his finger stayed where it was, burning fire onto my back.

Internally, I was reminding myself that I needed to say vigilant, that I couldn’t let this go the way of Valentine’s Day, but the message wasn’t quite making its way to my traitorous fingers. My hands had curled around the back of his neck, and my pinky and ring fingers had slowly edged their way under the collar of his shirt.

A second and third fingertip grazed the skin of my back. The blunt edge of a fingernail dragged lightly but intentionally across my skin

I sucked in a deep breath. All four of my fingers had crept under the collar of his shirt. I began to contemplate that top button.

The ten-minute warning bell for curfew rang.

Startled, I yelped and would have tumbled backwards if he hadn’t caught me quickly around the waist. Fred threw his head back laughing.

“It’s not funny,” I grumbled, crossing my arms across my chest.

“Oh go on, Lewis,” he teased, tickling the sides of my stomach. “Don’t be cross.”

I swatted his hands away. The cooler part of my brain suddenly returned and I realized the position that I was in. A flush prickled at my cheeks and I stood, pulling him up from the couch. “We’d better get back.”

“We’ve got ten minutes,” said Fred. “There’s no hurry.”

“Yes well…” I cleared my throat. “That was getting a bit…” My cheeks flamed, partly due to embarrassment that I’d let myself fall into the same situation as last time.

Fred’s grin turned sly and he wiggled his eyebrows. “You were going to ravish me, weren’t you?”

I sighed. “I don’t understand how you can be so flip about this.”

His eyes softened just a little bit and he drew me toward him in a hug. It wasn’t romantic, just friendly. I allowed myself to relax just a little, my cheek pressed against his chest.

“Charlotte.”

“Yes?”

“You worry too much.”

I sighed and pulled away from him. “You can’t honestly think that me getting…” I made a vague sort of gesture, my ears burning. “— _flustered_ is going to lead anywhere good.”

He quirked an eyebrow at me. “I think we were both enjoying ourselves.”

“Well, yes,” I conceded. He smirked and I barely resisted the urge to dock house points. “But that’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

“The point is…” I paused, trying to find the right words. “It feels like it’s treading a line. We’re only doing this because we want to be with other people. What’s the purpose of…” My cheeks flamed. “…you know…putting your hand up my shirt if our goal is other people?”

Fred quirked an eyebrow at me. “That was hardly a hand up your shirt, Lewis.”

“It was a figure of speech.”

He sighed, a rather impertinent grin twitching at the corners of his mouth and I knew he was going to say something ridiculous.

“Lewis. Are you worried you’re going to fall in love with me?”

I sighed and gave him a stern look. “That is not what I was trying to say, you’re just trying to turn this into another way to stroke your ego.”

“I mean, I can’t fault you for being worried,” he continued, as though he hadn’t heard me. “I am extremely charming…”

“Fred…”

“Not to mention handsome…”

“I swear on Merlin’s tomb, you are going to drive me to an early death.”

“And _quite_ clever and funny…”

Looking back, I realize that he had touched on a small kernel of truth, there in that room. Perhaps that was why we made our exit then, bickering and teasing each other and not talking about the implications of what he’d just said. We pointedly looked away from this topic when we had spoken so openly and freely about everything else.

It was like closing your eyes when you drop a match and believing that not seeing it hit the floor will save you from the blaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I say this (or a variation) every chapter, but you all are truly the best! I love reading your feedback so much. Please continue to tell me what you think! That really helps me know if I’m going in the right direction. This chapter was a bit like pulling teeth to write, so I’d especially love to hear what you think.
> 
> NEW FIC ALERT: In addition to Playing with Fire, I have also been working on some Secret Projects, which is to say: Fred or George-centric romances (I guess that’s my genre?) One of these fics is Delicate, a Fred/OC fic that is now posted. If you are so inclined, I would love it if you read it and told me what you think! Also, if you are a fan of Fred/OC or George/OC, you may want to add me to your Author Alerts because of some other Secret Projects in progress (though they will not be posted for a while yet).
> 
> For the next update, let’s say early to mid August of 2018 at the latest.


	13. Adieu, Devereux

It seemed like a rather strange oversight to schedule the Second Task in the middle of the school week rather than on the weekend.

Then again, I suppose I ought to have expected a bevy of rather strange decisions: after all, this Tournament was planned by people who thought it would be clever to pit teenagers against dragons.

It did mean classes were cancelled, though, so I wasn’t about to file any complaints. And with Bea planning on breaking up with Devereux the very same day, I suppose a day off was slightly more important than it might have been otherwise.

Bea wasn’t handling her impending breakup poorly, but she wasn’t exactly handling it well, either. She had dumped her fair share of boys in the past, but she had never made the decision so far in advance. While Bea is not naturally an anxious person, the additional time seemed to wear on her. In the days leading up to it, she vacillated wildly between calm and composed and nervous and pacing. When I asked her about it, she would give me an unconvincing smile, claim that she was fine, and quickly change the subject.

I didn’t know exactly what it was that she was dwelling on. It certainly wasn’t whether she was making the right choice—I believed her when she said that she was done with Devereux and had no regrets about ending things. It had to be something else. And while it was tempting to press her further on the subject, Bea is not the sort of person who takes very well to wheedling when she doesn’t feel like sharing—“like kicking a hornet’s nest, except somehow worse,” was the way her dad described it. I knew from experience that she would tell me eventually—it was just a matter of waiting until she decided it was time to talk. 

The morning of the Second Task, Bea was up and dressed when I woke up. I’d seen her lay out her clothes the night before—dark jeans and an emerald cashmere sweater that made her eyes look especially green. Her curls were wild and loose around her shoulders and her makeup was immaculate. She paced the dormitory while she waited for me to shower and dress, her face pulled into a slight frown as she stared blankly ahead at nothing.

I waited until Angelina and Alicia left before I said anything.

“How are you feeling?” This seemed like a safe question to ask. I couldn’t quite gauge her mood.

She started slightly, as though she’d forgotten that she wasn’t alone in the dormitory. “Like I’m awaiting both my execution and my release from prison.”

“That sounds complicated.”

She took a deep breath and the faraway look in her eye disappeared and suddenly she was back to normal. “It is what it is.” Her lips curled into that unconvincing smile. “Let’s talk about literally anything else. I thought I saw movement by the lake early this morning. I can’t imagine they’d have them do something in the water in February, can you?”

I shrugged and decided not to say anything about the change in subject. “We didn’t think they’d have them fight dragons, either.”

“I suppose.” She flopped down backwards onto her unmade bed. “I thought that this Tournament was meant to be less dangerous than the previous ones.”

“Theoretically.”

“Makes you wonder what the old Tournaments were like if the safer version includes dragons.” She paused for a moment and began to laugh. “Our parents have to sign a permission slip so we can walk five minutes to Hogsmeade, but dragons? Absolutely fine.”

I paused and started laughing. “Well, when you put it that way…”

“Then there were the Dementors last year and the basilisk the year before—”

“To be fair, the basilisk did very nearly close the school.”

“—and the whole business with the Philosopher’s Stone…” She laughed. “Merlin’s pants, it’s a wonder we’ve made it to sixth year.”

We were both laughing slightly too hard—Bea because she was trying to keep her mind off of Devereux and me because I was trying to help her.

And, well…it _was_ rather ridiculous.

Alicia walked back in in the middle of all of this. She looked at the two of us and smiled. “What’s so funny?”

Bea managed to catch her breath and propped herself up on her elbows. “Have you ever wondered why we need a permission slip for Hogsmeade but not for any of the things that might actually kill us?”

Alicia looked thoughtful as she retrieved her scarf from where it was hanging on her bedpost. “Huh. You know, I’d never thought about it. That is quite strange.” She laughed and draped her scarf around her neck. “McGonagall just came by, by the way. We’ve only got until nine for breakfast and she said to dress warmly.”

“No word on where we’re meant to be going?”

“She said we’d be given instructions after breakfast.”

Bea looked at her watch, her laughter fading. “We’ve got twenty minutes.” She looked at me and sighed. “Charlotte Victoria Lewis, if you keep me from bacon today of _all_ days—”

“I’m nearly done,” I said, quickly twisting my hair into a loose braid at the nape of my neck. “You’re being horribly ungrateful, I’ve been nothing but supportive.”

“Bah,” said Bea, waving a hand at me dismissively.

Alicia frowned, looking at the two of us. “Everything all right?”

“Yes.” Bea sighed as she stood up. “Or it will be in a few hours. I’m dumping my horrible boyfriend today.”

Alicia gave her a sympathetic look. “Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Bea cheerfully, grabbing her coat and gloves. “I’m not. Like I said, he’s horrible. I just want it to be over at this point.”

“Well, I’ve been considering starting a lonely hearts club, but seeing as I’m the only single girl in Gryffindor, it seemed like a rather sad thing to do. But if there’s two of us, maybe it isn’t quite as sad?”

“As long as we have club badges and a secret handshake, I’m in,” said Bea. She looked at her watch again. “Charlotte, I swear—”

“Oh, calm down, I just need to get my coat and we can go.”

We dashed down to breakfast with little time to spare, Alicia going off to sit with Angelina, Lee, and Katie Bell and Bea and I finding a pair of seats at the end of the table. Fred and George were nowhere to be seen, which probably meant they were up to no good. Bea and I were quiet as we ate, Bea practically inhaling her serving of bacon and eggs while I shoveled oatmeal into my mouth, nearly burning my tongue in the process.

Toward the end of breakfast, Bea took out a napkin and proceeded to set several extra slices of bacon on it before folding it into a neat packet and placing it carefully in the front pocket of her coat. 

“Don’t give me that judgmental look,” she said in response to my raised eyebrow. “I’m going to have a rotten day and I think that should give me the right to carry bacon in my pockets with impunity.”

Her statement was punctuated by the ringing of the bell. Dumbledore rose from his chair at the staff table and instructed us to proceed to the lake “in an orderly fashion.” His eyes twinkled as he said this—they always did, like he fully expected whatever chaos was about to ensue.

As a prefect, I was meant to do some sort of general crowd control in these sorts of situations. I found a place about halfway through the line, right by a gaggle of fifth year boys that included Bea’s brother, Rodney. They were a troublesome lot and seemed rather intent on giving me a run for my money. I could only be grateful that Rodney’s Hufflepuff best friend—Sherman? Samuel? I really need to ask Bea—was not among them, at least for the time being.

“Well, I suppose I was wrong,” said Bea as we made our way out of the Great Hall. “They are actually mad enough to put them in the lake in February.”

“I’m sure they— Edward Harper, you had better give me that Dungbomb or I’ll report you to McGonagall so fast your head will still be spinning next week.”

Edward grumbled and trudged up to me, shoving the offending object into my outstretched hand.

“Anyway,” I continued, pocketing the Dungbomb, “I’m sure they have their reasons. And a contingency plan so that no one freezes to death.”

“You can be rather terrifying, you know?” said Bea, eying Edward as he slouched away.

“Comes with the territory,” I said, shrugging.

“Well, if I’m not mistaken, Rodney’s got the rest of the Dungbombs in his coat pockets,” said Bea, looking at her brother and tilting her head to the side. “And possibly a Fanged Frisbee as well.”

I sighed. “I confiscated that three weeks ago.”

“He is an utter dunce, but he is a resourceful dunce,” said Bea. “Imagine what he’d be like if he applied himself.”

Sure enough, it was only a matter of time before Rodney casually dropped a hand into his pocket and withdrew what was unmistakably a Dungbomb. I was separated from Bea for about ten minutes while I confiscated the contraband from Rodney and his group of friends, taking a house point for each item. In the end, Gryffindor lost twenty-seven points and my coat pockets were stuffed to the brim with all manner of banned items.

A set of spectator stands had been set up around the lake, draped in colors for Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons. Students were filing into the stands, a sea of winter coats and hats waving cheerful banners and flags with school colors and the names of the champions. As I approached the stands, I could hear a pair of familiar voices calling out above the crowd and I knew immediately that I was going to have to tell McGonagall about at least two other misbehaving students.

“Morning, love, fancy a friendly wager on the outcome of the Second Task?” Fred had a huge grin on his face and a box to take the aforementioned wagers.

I sighed, putting my hands on my hips. “Why must you do this? You _know_ I’m going to have to report you to McGonagall.”

“I’d like to think of it as keeping you on your toes,” said Fred, looking completely unrepentant.

“I don’t need to be kept on my toes. I just confiscated what looked like half of the Zonko’s product line from Rodney Pierce and his gang of idiots. You have no idea what terror I can unleash.”

George sidled up to Fred and me. “Contraband? Interesting. Where are you keeping it, by the by? Just want to make sure it’s in a safe place.”

“George Weasley, I am genuinely concerned for your health and well-being if you think I’m going to fall for that.”

George grinned and shrugged. “As long as we’re exploring impossible hypotheticals, any chance you’d be willing to overlook this minor indiscretion owing to your powerful affection for my brother?”

“Nope.”

“Oh go on, Lewis,” said Fred, flashing me a cheeky grin. “How am I supposed to romance you if I’m trapped in detention for the foreseeable future?”

“I’m sure I’ll manage.”

Fred shrugged and looked George. “Worth a try.” He jerked his head toward the stands. “McGonagall’s over that way, speaking with Dumbledore.”

“I appreciate your cooperation,” I said, not quite able to hide my smile. “Have you seen Bea by any chance?”

“Saw her going into the stands talking to what’s-his-name. The French fellow.”

I nodded. “Right. Well, I suppose I’ll see you whenever McGonagall shuts down your little operation.”

Fred grinned and pecked me on the cheek. “See you later.”

I found McGonagall rather easily, though it took me a moment to get her attention. I handed over the contraband, which she accepted with a sigh before vanishing the objects into a particular locked cupboard in her office.

“And I’m afraid I’m going to have to report some student-led gambling as well,” I said.

McGonagall’s mouth settled into a stern line. “That will be Fred and George Weasley, I presume?”

I held back a smile, but barely. “Yes, Professor.”

Professor McGonagall sighed. “Gambling. Of all things.” She shook her head. “Where are they?”

“Just outside the stands,” I said. “You can’t miss them—just follow the sounds of the shouting. And they know to expect you.”

“Well, I’d best see to that,” said McGonagall. “If you would kindly join your housemates in the stands.”

“Yes, Professor.”

I made my way back to the stands and found Bea at the back of the Gryffindor section, talking quietly to Devereux and looking rather serious. She caught my eye and gave a slight nod as I walked over to her.

“There you are,” I said cheerfully. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” I smiled brightly at Devereux. “Hello, Devereux, nice to see you again.”

Devereux mumbled something that might have been a greeting before stalking off toward the Beauxbatons section, a scowl pulling at his handsome face.

“He’s in a mood,” I said to Bea as I sat down beside her. “Did you dump him already?”

Bea rolled her eyes and sighed. “No. He’s cross because I won’t come sit with him in the Beauxbatons section. I asked him how he would feel if I made him sit with me in the Hogwarts section and it went completely over his head. ‘Why would I do that? I want to sit with my own school.’” She shook her head. “He might be the most self-involved person I’ve ever met. And I’ve met Gilderoy Lockhart.”

“You didn’t think Lockhart was self-involved when he made you go all moon-eyed in class,” I said, smiling slyly.

Bea waved a hand at me dismissively. “Hindsight. How’s Rodney?”

I shrugged. “I imagine McGonagall will be writing your Dad.”

Bea sighed. “Sometimes I can’t quite believe that we came from the same gene pool.”

“I reckon you’re not alone in that.”

She smiled and checked her watch. “Ugh. Nearly quarter past and I’m already freezing.” She stamped her feet and shoved her hands into her coat pockets. “I still can’t believe they’re making them do this. I wouldn’t want to strip down to my skivvies in this weather.”

“Not even for a chance at one thousand Galleons?”

“Double it and I’d think about it.” She frowned, shifting her hands inside her pockets. “I think I’ve just crushed some of my bacon.”

“There were flaws in your plan.”

She made a sour face at me. “I am disappointed in your lack of support.”

I shrugged, shoving my hands into my own coat pockets. “I’m a realist, you know that.”

“You’re a spoilsport.” She sniffed haughtily. “Now I won’t even offer to share with you.”

“Pocket bacon doesn’t sound particularly appealing to me.”

“That is because you have no appreciation for the finer things in life.” She frowned. “Where’s your boyfriend at? I’d have thought he’d be here by now.”

“You mean you didn’t notice him and George taking wagers outside the stands?”

“I was rather preoccupied trying to avoid Devereux.” She gave me a grim sort of smile. “Which worked out swimmingly for me, as you can see.”

“Ah. Well, McGonagall is in the process of putting a stop to it, so I imagine he’ll be by momentarily.”

Bea arched an eyebrow. “Did _you_ report him?”

“Of course I did. I can’t very well give him special privileges just because he’s my boyfriend.”

Bea shook her head and grinned. “You’re a formidable woman, Charlotte Lewis.”

I shrugged. “Like you said, I’m rather terrifying.”

A gust of wind blew across the stands. Bea shivered and I pulled my coat more tightly around me.

“My toes are numb,” said Bea, stamping her feet again. “This really doesn’t seem safe.”

“I mean…they will be able to use magic. That’s the whole purpose of this, isn’t it?”

Bea arched an eyebrow at me. “Right. Let’s put you in a swimsuit and see how good your spells are.”

“That sounds intriguing,” said Fred, squeezing into the seat next to me.

“It is not nearly as intriguing or sexy as you think it is,” I said.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Specifically, she was suggesting I do that in this weather.”

Fred’s face fell. “You’re right, that’s not what I thought it might be.”

I decided I didn’t want to know what he thought it might be. “So what’s the verdict? Detention? Lines? Both?”

“Neither,” said George cheerfully, taking a seat next to Bea. “She said she’s letting us off with a warning because she doesn’t have time for our nonsense today.”

“And she said if we take advantage of her kindness, she will make sure we regret it for the rest of our natural lives.” Fred sighed and shook his head. “I think she’s starting to go soft on us.”

“Reckon she’s realized she’s only got a year left with us,” said George. “It’s enough to break a person’s heart.”

“I think she’s more likely to plan a celebration,” said Bea, popping a piece of bacon into her mouth. “Imagine the free time she’ll have.”

George looked at Bea with a puzzled sort of frown. “Are you eating bacon?”

“I refuse to apologize for who I am,” said Bea defiantly.

“That’s a yes,” said George, grinning and holding out his hand. “Go on, you’ve got to share.”

“Seriously, George?” I said as Bea dropped a small piece into his hand. “Pocket bacon?”

George shrugged and popped the piece into his mouth. “It’s bacon, isn’t it?”

Bea smirked at me. “Told you.”

Any further arguments about the merits of pocket bacon were interrupted by the booming voice of Ludo Bagman announcing that the Second Task was about to begin.

In a word, the Second Task was boring. In two words, it was boring and cold. I don’t usually have any problems with school spirit or the display of such, but looking at a lake in the cold for more than an hour felt like a rather substantial stretch, at least for me. I huddled close to Fred for warmth while Bea and George entertained themselves by negotiating over Bea’s bacon.

By the time Harry Potter emerged from the water with Ron Weasley and a person I assumed was Fleur Delacour’s relative, I was feeling rather apathetic toward the Tournament in general and the Second Task in particular. Harry and Cedric were tied—I surmised from the chatter around me that there would be a party in Gryffindor Tower that evening to celebrate—but I was most excited about getting back to the castle and curling up in front of the fire for the foreseeable future.

It was only when Bea tugged on my sleeve as we were leaving the stands that I remembered that the day wasn’t exactly over.

“I’m going to go meet Devereux,” she said, giving me a rather strained sort of smile. “I expect I’ll be back after lunch.”

I nodded and squeezed her hand. “I’ll be in the common room. Good luck.”

She smiled once more before going off into the crowd, wending her way through a sea of gold and scarlet scarves toward the Beauxbatons students.

“What’s that about?” asked Fred.

“Nothing. I’ll tell you later.”

For once, he didn’t press me.

* * *

Bea returned to the common room around one o’clock when I was working on my Potions essay at one of the tables in the common room. Fatigue had replaced that pacing, anxious sort of glint in her eye and I couldn’t quite decide if that was better or worse. She sat down in one of the unoccupied chairs, heaving a beleaguered sort of sigh. 

I set my quill aside. “Well?”

“Alas, poor Devereux. I dumped him.”

She seemed rather unbothered by this development.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She snorted. “There’s not much to talk about, really.”

“Are you upset?”

She shook her head. “No. Not about him, anyway.”

We were quiet for a long moment. I didn’t pick up my quill, sensing that there was something more that she had to say. She sat in the chair with her arms crossed, staring at a point on the wall.

“D’you think there’s something wrong with me?” she asked finally, her voice oddly small and vulnerable.

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno…” She paused for a moment and sighed. “I just…I always make these stupid choices. The Devereuxes of the world. It’s fun, for a little while, anyway, but it’s not meaningful and…I dunno, it just makes me wonder if I’m even capable of having a meaningful relationship.

“Bea, of course you are.”

“All evidence points toward the contrary.” She gave a grim and bitter sort of laugh that wasn’t at all like her. “I’ve had what—half a dozen boyfriends—and I’ve genuinely liked…I dunno, maybe one of them.”

“You’re sixteen.”

“So are you and yet you’ve managed to have a sensible relationship,” she said.

My tongue felt heavy with all the things I couldn’t say. “I wouldn’t use my romantic history as your gold standard.”

“Well, you certainly can’t use mine.” There was that grim and bitter laugh again. “D’you know I don’t think I’ve ever been in love?”

“You’re reading too much into things.”

“I think it’s a rational expectation that if I’ve had six boyfriends and had sex with two of them, I should have at least felt something significant for one of them.”

“My mum always says she thought she’d been in love before she met my dad,” I said. “And then when she fell in love with Dad she realized that everything before had been a pale sort of imitation.”

Bea laughed, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Your parents are adorable.”

“I know, it’s rather disgusting.” I nudged her shin under the table. “But I reckon you’re doing all right, Bea. And even if you weren’t, you shouldn’t judge your worth based on whether or not you have a boyfriend.”

“It’s not a question of having a boyfriend and having worth…” She paused for a moment, seeming to search for the right words. “It just…it makes me wonder if I don’t value myself enough. If that’s why I keep throwing myself into these things that I know are going to fail…”

I didn’t really know what to say to that. Outwardly, Bea had always been so confident that I would have never thought something like this would occur to her. This seemed like the sort of insecurity she could vanquish with an eye roll.

“You are wonderful and I will be glad to remind you of that fact on a daily basis if it helps,” I said quietly.

Bea gave me a small smile. “I don’t really know what will help. This is all…I think I’m just overwhelmed. It’s probably just a passing thing…but thank you.”

We were both quiet for a long time.

“Are you in love with Fred, d’you think?” she asked finally.

It was times like these when I felt the worst about my arrangement with Fred: moments when Bea was expecting me to be utterly honest and I couldn’t be.

“I think it’s a bit early to tell,” I said. It felt more like a half-truth than a lie, a clever illusion.

“Maybe.” Bea picked at her cuticle. “I suspect you won’t know until it’s already happened.” There was—at last—a genuine smile, albeit small. “You tend to be a bit dense like that.”

“I’m going to let you get away with that comment because you’re feeling sad, but that is the only reason why.”

Her eyes sparkled. “You won’t see it coming. You’ll be minding your business and it will just completely bowl you over. You might even say it will hit you like a _train_ …”

“All right, now you’re just taking advantage of my sympathy to further your obsession with your silly train metaphor.”

“That train metaphor is an unparalleled work of art and you’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”

I laughed and rolled my eyes, relieved to see Bea acting more like herself.

“Better?” I asked after a moment.

Bea shrugged. “Maybe. Yes.” She sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I think I might take a break from relationships for a while. Do some reflecting. Focus on my studies.”

“Are you turning into me?”

Bea snorted. “You take that to a rarely explored extreme. Or at least you did. I’m only thinking about a limited timeframe. Maybe a year or so.”

“I dunno, Bea, that sounds like a victory for me,” I said, not quite able to resist a smirk.

She kicked me under the table. “Don’t get too smug. We’ll see if it even takes.”

George was approaching our table. He came up behind Bea and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Bea Pierce. You made me a promise,” he said, leaning over her.

Bea looked up at George and sighed. “Of course you’d remember this now.”

“Oh, don’t pretend that we didn’t agree to this time earlier.”

“George,” I said, “leave off, she’s had a rough day.”

George frowned and sat down next to Bea. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I dumped Devereux and got a bit existential. I’m mostly over it.” Bea gave him a close-lipped smile that seemed designed to inhibit further questions on the matter.

“Well,” said George, reaching into his pocket, “I did promise you a commemorative coin.” He slapped a large gold coin onto the table.

“You’re not serious?” laughed Bea, picking up the coin and turning it over in her hands. “I can’t believe you actually did this.”

“You know me, I’m quite fond of commemorative coins,” said George with a grin. “You might say it’s my life’s passion.”

Bea passed the coin to me. There, etched in gold, was George, grinning cheekily and flashing two thumbs up. “Congratulations: you dumped an idiot” was written along the edge in block print. On the back was an etching of George and the words, “Now a disappointing memory!”

“How long have you been walking around with this in your pocket?” I asked, passing the coin back to Bea.

George shrugged. “Long enough.”

Bea pocketed the coin. “Thanks, George. I shall treasure it forever.”

“You’re quite welcome,” he said, smiling. “Now, if you’d like, I can come back and bother you another day. I’m not a complete monster.”

Bea took a deep breath and smiled—genuinely, this time. “You know, I think it will be good for me. Fresh air and all that.” She arched an eyebrow. “And I’m going to slaughter you, so it will be good for my ego as well.”

George grinned. “You’re on, Pierce.”

“What is it that you’re doing? Or am I better off not knowing?” I asked as they stood.

“Broom race,” said George. “Bea reckons she can beat me.”

“He hasn’t been training for months _and_ he’s underestimated my ability,” said Bea. “My victory is inevitable.”

“She really believes it, bless her,” said George, ruffling Bea’s hair.

Bea shoved him. “George Weasley, you’re going to eat those words.”

“Shall I let Madam Pomfrey know to expect you or no?” I asked.

Bea’s eyes narrowed and she jabbed a finger at me. “You are going to eat those words as well. I will be asking someone else to lead my victory parade.”

“I’m devastated,” I said tonelessly.

“You will be.” She turned to George. “Come on, you’ve got a race to lose.”

* * *

Bea won. To hear her tell it, she was practically a full lap ahead of George when she crossed the finish line; to hear George tell it, she won by a nose, a technicality, really. The truth, I imagine, was somewhere in the middle. 

Nevertheless, this fundamental disagreement did not stop either one of them from acting out their version of events that evening during the party celebrating the Second Task, much to the annoyance of Ron Weasley. Ron had been commanding attention with his account of the Second Task, but by the time the party came round, most everyone had heard it already. And while Ron’s account was certainly interesting, both Bea and George had a particular knack for storytelling. Bea’s commitment was such that her version of events included a physical reenactment of George in the final seconds of the race, with a whole range of exaggerated expressions of disbelief and defeat that put the room into hysterics. It was a difficult act to compete with, even if the competing story includes being held hostage by merpeople.

But despite the showmanship of Bea and George, there was another matter that captured my attention for almost the entire duration of the party:

Angelina and Lee were fighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I am overwhelmed by your kind words and feedback! You make writing this so much fun, thank you.
> 
> Just another shameless plug—I mean…reminder—that I’ve got a new Fred/OC fic called Delicatethat you should totally read while you are waiting for updates on this. 
> 
> I am hoping to have Chapter 14 posted by late August.


	14. In Like a Lion

The first thing I felt when I realized that Angelina and Lee were fighting was a queasy sort of dread.

The incongruity of this reaction would not strike me until much later.

At that moment, though, all I could really focus on was the fact that my stomach felt like it was trying to escape by burrowing through my toes. If this plan was working, it was surely only working for Fred. Aidan and Genevieve showed no signs of strife—and if anything, I'd put more effort into avoiding Aidan since embarking on this stupid plan. And for all our plotting and scheming, Fred and I had never even considered the possibility of one couple splitting up before the other. I couldn't very well keep Fred in a fake relationship if Angelina was available and interested, so where did that leave me?

Mixed in with that sick and sour feeling was also a sort of sadness: though I'd never admit this to him, I knew I would miss Fred, perhaps more than I rightfully should. We would still remain friends, certainly, but something about our strange fellowship of heartbreak would be lost, and that made me rather sadder than I expected. He wouldn't need to talk to me as often. We'd have no need to share secrets at sunset—indeed, if he ended up with Angelina, that's the sort of thing that would surely be frowned upon.

"Charlotte?" Fred was looking at me, his brow furrowed and I realized that I'd been staring off into space for the last few minutes. Probably, I looked a little worried, perhaps somewhat green.

I forced a smile. "Sorry. Got distracted."

Fred wasn't buying it. "Try again."

"I'd rather speak about it later." A party was no place for this conversation—there were too many opportunities to be overheard. But perhaps more significant was the fact that the prospect of our fake breakup had left me feeling much stranger than I had expected. I didn't know why, but this unexpected sadness felt like a secret that I couldn't share with Fred.

Fred, mercifully, took me at my word. "I'll hold you to that," he said, slinging an arm around my shoulders.

"I know."

He didn't notice Angelina and Lee until a few minutes later.

"Seems to be trouble in paradise," he said quietly into my ear. The smile in his voice twisted my stomach into knots and I couldn't bring myself to look at him.

"Yeah." I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. "Seems like it."

* * *

 

The party broke up relatively early—it was a school night, after all—and the common room emptied out until it was eventually just Fred and me curled up together on one of the couches, talking quietly as the fire burned low in the grate, my legs draped across his lap, his hands resting on my knees.

"What was bothering you earlier?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Nothing."

He sighed, folding his arms across his chest. "Lewis, can we skip this tedious business where you pretend you're not going to tell me something?" He arched an eyebrow. "You should know by this point that I will wheedle it out of you eventually. I am very good at wheedling. A champion wheedler, if you will."

"Have you ever considered that there are things in this world that simply aren't your business?"

"I don't see why that should stop me from knowing."

I rolled my eyes. He looked at me for a long moment, a sort of half-smile playing at his lips.

"So are you going to tell me or am I going to have to drag it out of you?"

I pressed my lips together and looked away from him.

He sighed. " _Charlotte_."

It was patently unfair that he could read me so easily. I was so good at keeping my expression neutral and keeping my secrets close to my heart and Fred had cheerfully ignored all of that since that very first night at the Yule Ball when he worked out that I fancied Aidan. The face that I presented to the world was carefully crafted and layered with impeccable poise but with Fred, it might as well been a moon made of papier-mâché or a sea made of crepe paper and silk: believable at a distance only.

"How can you always tell?" I asked instead.

"I know you're trying to change the subject," he said, "but how can I always tell what?"

"When I'm upset," I said. "I'm good at pretending I'm not, but you always know. It's infuriating."

He raised his eyebrows. "Lewis, if I had a strategy I couldn't very well give away my secret."

"How can you not have a strategy?"

He shrugged. "Intuition, I suppose. You look upset, I wheedle it out of you. It's not very complicated."

"Intuition? Maybe you ought to have kept on with Divination."

"That's a horrid thing to say," he said, poking my knee.

"It's horrid of me to want you to utilize your talents so you can achieve the highest success?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

I arched an eyebrow. "That's a lie and you know it."

He grinned. "Well, it gets you somewhere. But not this time." He gave me a wry look. "And don't think you've distracted me with your clever barbs. Tell me what's wrong."

My smile faded and I looked away again. I could feel him watching me as I weighed my words.

"Angelina and Lee were fighting," I said after a long moment. "So I have to wonder where this leaves me."

Fred frowned. "I'm not sure I follow."

"Aidan and Genevieve don't seem to be in any danger of splitting up so…" I shrugged. "Not that I've really made much of an effort to talk to Aidan."

Fred was looking rather confused. "I'm not…you think Angelina and Lee are splitting up?"

"I think that's a reasonable assumption." I paused, assessing Fred's expression. "…Right?"

He shook his head. "I wouldn't read that much into one fight, honestly. They're both rather quick-tempered. That's not even their first fight."

"…it isn't?"

"No. George said they had a fight at Hogsmeade, after you and I left the Three Broomsticks." He shrugged. "They were snogging each other stupid by the end of it, though, if you recall."

Mostly, I remembered that he'd gripped my hand tightly all the way back to the castle and that later he'd kissed me breathless in the corridor.

"Oh." I swallowed. "I didn't realize."

The panicked, queasy sort of feeling in my stomach had eased some, but I still didn't feel quite right. I could feel Fred watching me as I tried to sort out what it was I still needed to say.

"It did make think…" I took a deep breath. "We don't really have a contingency…you know. If Angelina and Lee split up and Aidan and Genevieve don't…or vice versa…"

"First off—" He gently pried my hands apart and I realized that I'd been twisting them in my lap. "—you're going to turn your hands into horrible claws if you keep doing that. You'll confirm all those awful Muggle stereotypes about witches."

I sighed wistfully. "Oh, but then I'd get to live in a house made of gingerbread and sweets that I'd use to trap wandering children until they trick me into roasting myself alive in my own oven."

Fred frowned. "That makes absolutely no sense." He placed a hand to my forehead. "You don't have a fever, do you? There's a flu going around Hufflepuff right now…"

I laughed and gently pushed his hand away. "I'm fine. I was joking—it's a Muggle fairy tale. I always forget that you're pure blood."

"You're going to need to explain that to me later because I have dozens of follow up questions." He looked at my hands, which I'd absently been twisting back together. He separated them again, threading his fingers through my own. "My second point, however, was that in the event that such a thing were to happen, we'll sort something out."

I eyed him skeptically as I tapped my fingers against his knuckles. "How? I can't in good conscience keep you in a fake relationship if you've got the possibility of a real one."

"Right, but I can't very well abandon you just because things start looking up for me."

I looked at him. "Fred, that's very sweet of you, but you can't let your sodding Gryffindor chivalry force you to put your life on hold on account of your fake girlfriend."

He raised an eyebrow, his mouth curling into a sly sort of smile. "And if you were in the same position, what would you do?"

I was silent because of course I'd do the same stupid thing. We'd shared too many secrets for me to toss Fred aside. My mouth settled into a firm, hard line and Fred's smile widened.

"I'm right, aren't I?"

"Shut up," I grumbled.

He was gloating now. "Haven't I always said you adore me?"

We were edging too close to a truth that I still wasn't ready to share: that the prospect of the end of our fake breakup had conjured an unexpected lump in my throat, that I would miss him in a way that I still didn't quite understand—wouldn't understand for a few months yet. And whatever powers of wheedling Fred might have, I knew that I wasn't going to tell him that. I didn't know exactly why, but it felt too strange and precious to say aloud. It was the sort of thing that was meant to be kept close to the heart.

And so I merely rolled my eyes and redirected the conversation to the practical, the logical: "So, what's our plan then?"

Fred grinned, still a little too smug. "Same as it always was." He raised an eyebrow. "Though you need to stop avoiding Aidan."

"I know."

"As I've told you multiple times now."

I sighed and leaned my shoulder against the back of the couch, my cheek pressed against the worn upholstery. "I know."

He traced his forefinger in a spiral on the back of my hand, brow slightly furrowed in thought. "Why have you been avoiding him? I don't think I've asked."

I worried my lower lip between my teeth. "Self-preservation, I suppose," I said after a moment. "It's hard to feel sad about the whole situation if I'm not looking directly at it."

"You realize that—"

"It's entirely counterproductive?" I looked up at him and smiled sadly. "Of course. I never claimed it was sensible."

"Fair enough."

We were quiet again.

"How do you manage?" I asked finally. "Surely you have the same sort of feeling when you see them together."

His lip twitched in a way that was a little too sad to be called a smile.

"I suppose I just pretend that I don't," he said. "Have that feeling, I mean."

"Does it work?"

He shrugged. "Sometimes."

A strange sort of shiver worked its way up my spine then. I folded my arms across my chest and shifted so I was curled up next to Fred, my head resting on his shoulder, his arm draping around me.

"You cold?"

"A bit. Fire's gone down."

"We should get to bed."

"Probably."

But we sat there for a good deal longer, Fred with his arm around my shoulder and me quietly wondering why I couldn't bring myself to say that I would miss him.

* * *

 

I had a stomachache for most of March.

There were two reasons for this. The first was Angelina and Lee. They made up after their fight at the party—Fred had been right about that—but then there was another fight, this time over breakfast in the Great Hall. I spent most of that Tuesday with my stomach in knots until I saw them making up during our free period, kissing in an alcove by the Transfiguration classroom. But my relief didn't last very long—they were soon at it again. In fact, it seemed like every time I turned around, they were either fighting or engaged in some sort of public reconciliation (read: snogging). Sometimes, there would be a few days of peace before the cycle started back up again.

It was a lot of uncertainty for one person to take.

The second reason for my month-long stomachache was Aidan. Specifically: I was making a genuine effort to actually interact with him.

It had never been easy talking to Aidan, even before he started seeing Genevieve. Back when we regularly traded cheap paperbacks and spent hours studying in the library, it wasn't easy because I was humming with a giddy sort of anticipation. I could never fully relax—I was second-, third-, and fourth-guessing every move I made and cataloging every look for further analysis. And even though it was exhausting in that respect, it still felt something like a miracle: here was a boy my age who liked the same things I liked, who cared about school as much as I did. He was serious and thoughtful— _and_ he was handsome. I had no idea how he felt about me, but he'd loaned me his copy of _And Then There Were None_ , which he'd marked up with little annotations and asides scattered throughout the book like breadcrumbs for me to find and I suppose that felt sort of like romance.

Since he'd started seeing Genevieve, talking to him had changed to a different sort of not easy. Now it was an exercise in heartbreak and a reminder of my own failure: this is what _could_ have been mine if only I'd been _more_. More brave, more confident, more observant. It was pressing at old wounds, it was shopping for tiaras when you only have Knuts to your name.

But the prospect of being alone at the end of this stupid plan was more upsetting, so one day in early March, I called upon every ounce of my Gryffindor courage and sat down at a particular table in the library—one that I knew Aidan favored because it was near a window—around a time when I knew he was most likely to show up. I took out my Potions textbook and a fresh roll of parchment and began to study for an upcoming exam, trying to ignore the way my stomach was twisting.

Forty minutes later, right when I was about to give up, a familiar shadow fell over the table.

"Hey." Aidan's smile was wide as he sat down in the chair across from me. "It's been a while since I've seen you here."

"I've been busy," I said, which was mostly true. Sort of. "Been doing most of my studying in the common room recently."

"Well, I'm glad to have you back," said Aidan, looking like he meant it in a way that made my stomach flutter. "What are you working on? Potions?"

"Yeah. I've been having nightmares about next week's exam."

He opened his bag and took out his own textbook. "You always think you're going to do five times worse than you actually do." He smiled again. "You thought you weren't going to manage more than an A on your O.W.L.s and that's clearly not what happened."

"I think I got lucky in the practical," I said with a shrug. "If they'd asked for a Draught of Peace, I think I wouldn't have managed more than an P at best."

Aidan chuckled. "Well, I haven't seen any smoke coming from your cauldron this year, even despite Weasley being your partner."

"He's actually quite good with the practical part of the class," I said. I wasn't sure why, but I felt the need to defend Fred, even though he made no attempt to distinguish himself academically, nor challenge anyone who suggested that this was the case.

"Oh, I don't mean he's not talented," said Aidan quickly with a smile. "I meant that he doesn't usually turn down the opportunity for a minor explosion. Neither one of them does."

I had to concede that point. "You're not wrong."

"I have to say, I'm impressed that you've managed to keep him in line," he said. "You and Bea both."

Idly, I wondered if he could tell the difference between Fred and George. It wasn't exactly uncommon for people to get them confused—I certainly hadn't been able to do so until we started talking at the Yule Ball, but I suppose I'd become rather used to it, to the point that it seemed strange to not be able to tell them apart.

I shrugged. "I'm rather good at being a terrifying authority figure. I suppose that's why I made prefect."

Aidan laughed and my resulting smile felt a little too bright, a little too telling. He wasn't someone who laughed all that often—he was so earnest, so serious that humor sometimes went over his head—and making him laugh always felt like a victory. It was evidence that I was really clever, that I could be the sort of girl that he might fancy.

"Well, you've certainly improved the quality of my educational experience," he said.

I had a flicker of a strange feeling, so quick that I almost didn't notice it. I didn't really know what it was or what it meant, but suddenly I felt a strong desire to change the subject.

"What have you been reading lately?" I asked instead. "I'm in between books at the moment and it's been a while since I've had a good mystery."

* * *

Over the next few weeks, I slowly worked myself back up to my previous study schedule. It didn't exactly get easier, but I suppose I started to feel more confident smiling my way through conversations about lectures and exams.

The hardest was when Genevieve would join us. I think most girls wouldn't have approved of their boyfriend studying with another girl—most girls probably would have insisted on tagging along to these study sessions as a chaperone, offering overt displays of physical affection as a sort of thinly veiled threat. Genevieve was not concerned about this, at least not that I saw. She seemed perfectly at ease with the situation—and in fact, she commented more than once that it was nice that I would study with Aidan because it saved her from having to spend so much time in the library. She'd say this fondly and with a soft smile, her hand often resting on the back of his neck, fingers curling into his hair—not as a threat to me, but as a genuine expression of affection.

It made me feel rather sick and I'd have to focus to keep my expression calm. Possibly, she didn't think of me as a threat—and why would she? If I looked like Genevieve, if I was as sweet and gentle as she was, I wouldn't worry about a girl like me stealing him away. And then I'd start to feel sick because wasn't I the villain in this story? What kind of selfish, awful person would try to tempt a perfectly nice boy away from a perfectly nice girl? What kind of person was so terrified of being alone that she was pretending to be in a relationship with someone else?

Usually, when I got to this point, it led to me leaving the library feeling like I was millions of miles away from myself. I'd find Fred and drag him into some dark corner or empty classroom and kiss him until I felt something, until we were edging up against activity that was perhaps too intimate for our fake relationship—my fingers creeping under his shirt collar, his fingers fiddling with the hem of my shirt. Then I would crash back into myself and tears would prick at the corners of my eyes. I would lean into him then, pressing my cheek against his chest, trying to anchor myself with the steady beat of his heart. He'd hold me, rubbing circles on my back and saying nothing because he knew what it was like.

"Sorry," I would say after a while.

"Stop apologizing," he'd say.

I'd pull back to look at him and we'd stare at each other for a moment until he made some sort of joke and I'd laugh. We'd walk back to the common room together, talking quietly about nothing important, but my spirit would feel lighter than it had before.

It occurred to me in these moments that this is why I would miss Fred—because of these quiet moments that meant everything even though we were talking about nothing.

* * *

Three weeks in, Aidan loaned me a copy of a Muggle mystery that his dad had sent him for Christmas. I devoured the book and savored the notes that he'd made in the margins of the page, reading them over and over, looking for a clue or a sign or something.

And then, in the margin on page 294: _Charlotte would like this_.

My heart squeezed with a feeling that felt a little like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm moving my notes to the end of the chapter...I thought it looked nicer).
> 
> Thank you all so much for reviewing, favoriting, and following! It's great hearing from you. And on that note, I want to acknowledge Olivia, who left a guest review on FF.net on that really got me thinking and actually helped me untangle a plot issue that I've been trying to figure out since forever. I genuinely mean it when I say your feedback is the best! Thanks, Olivia—this chapter is dedicated to you!
> 
> I know this chapter is a bit shorter than my usual updates. Chapter 15 should be longer and should be up by late September 2018—although I'm hoping to get it up earlier since this chapter is on the shorter side (although you can always read my other Fred/OC fic, Delicate while you're waiting…not that I'm still shamelessly plugging my own work.)


	15. Shooting Stars

In the last week of March, the tempests that were plaguing Angelina and Lee seemed to calm. It was a strange sort of thing to observe: it was almost as if they had been struggling to find their natural rhythm and after weeks of bickering and stepping on each other's toes, they realized that they had been in completely different time signatures altogether. Now the squabbles that they had were few and far between and they seemed more at ease with one another and more adept at reading each other's moods and feelings.

Fred seemed unbothered by this development—in fact, I wasn't entirely certain that he'd noticed until I asked him about it.

"Yeah, I noticed." He looked at me with a knowing sort of smirk. "That's why I told you I wasn't putting much stock in one fight."

"Can we please have a conversation about the topic at hand rather than gloating about something you said that turned out to be right?"

"Now where's the fun in that?"

Sometimes, I genuinely wondered if I could get away with hexing him.

Fred had little to add to that particular conversation: simply put, he wasn't worried. His entire approach to this scheme was a unique blend of worry-free optimism and strategic denial that was so baffling to me that it almost felt like a personal insult. There were so many things to worry about in this situation: how could he just carry on like everything was fine? When I asked him this question, he—of course—laughed at me and told me I needed to relax.

In a way, I suppose we balanced each other out—Fred had all the confidence in the world that everything would be fine and I did enough worrying for the both of us.

It seemed, though, that the rule of my life was that every problem that was even temporarily solved required the immediate introduction of a new and entirely unforeseen problem. Angelina and Lee had stopped fighting, which left me free to focus on my new problem: Fred's birthday was the first of April and I had no idea what to get him.

This was partly due to the nature of our relationship. What sort of birthday gift do you get for a fake boyfriend? There weren't any gift-buying guides about this, no helpful articles in _Witch Weekly_. Initially, I had thought I would choose something utterly benign and traditional—a box of chocolates, maybe a nice quill. But I became less and less convinced of that idea the more I thought about it. The fact was that Fred knew more of my secrets than Bea. Regardless of the fact that our romance was fake, my relationship with him felt close enough to merit a thoughtful gift.

I didn't want to ask Bea about for ideas because I couldn't exactly tell her the whole truth and the whole truth felt like an important component of why I wanted to give him something thoughtful in the first place. But eventually, I realized that the only thing I was coming up with on my own was "how about a really nice sweater?" and it became clear to me that I needed to get out of my own head.

So I asked Bea…and immediately regretted it.

"Well…" she said, waggling her eyebrows, "…a gift doesn't have to be a _thing_ , you know."

I sighed. I ought to have known that she was going to suggest something completely inappropriate, even though we were sitting in the common room where people could theoretically overhear us.

I lowered my voice. "I'm not going to go up to him with a card that says 'unwrap me,' if that's what you're suggesting."

"Why not? That could be fun for both of you."

"We're not at that point yet," I said delicately.

"For the sake of clarity, what point are you referring to precisely? A firm handshake? Sex? A kiss goodnight?"

"Oh, don't pretend that you weren't suggesting sex when you told me a gift doesn't have to be a thing."

"Actually, I was leaving that open to whatever level of physical contact you two are comfortable with at this particular moment in time," said Bea primly. Her eyes took on a rather mischievous glint. "But since _you_ brought it up—"

"Oh, for Godric's sake…"

"— _are_ you on your way to that point, by which I mean sex?"

I cleared my throat. "I don't know. We haven't been together all that long and we haven't really discussed it yet."

This was another one of those statements that wasn't exactly a lie if you looked at it sideways, squinted, and pretended I wasn't lying about several other things. Fred and I had never discussed how we would choreograph such a thing if it came up. Hell, we'd never even discussed whether our fake relationship would reach a point where we would need to give people the impression that we were having sex. The logistics of crafting that illusion would be a different thing entirely. Bea had unwittingly turned over a stone that hid a whole host of problems and questions that I hadn't even thought to consider. It was rather overwhelming.

Bea, of course, was privy to none of this internal drama and carried on obliviously. "Well, I imagine it's going to come up sooner or later," she said, "what with the way you're always pressed up against walls and such, it's only a matter of time."

"We are not 'always pressed up against walls and such,'" I said crossly.

She gave me a sly sort of grin. "Would you care to make a wager on that? I've seen you more often than you might realize. Believe it or not, there have been _several_ times when I've left the two of you alone and didn't interrupt just to tease you about it."

"I find that extremely difficult to believe."

"Ask George," she said, shrugging. "He's been with me on several of these occasions. In fact, I've had to bribe him _twice_ to leave you be."

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but what's the going rate for bribing George?"

"Surprisingly reasonable, actually," she said. "I had to buy him a butterbeer at the last Hogsmeade weekend and I'm buying him another one this weekend."

There was, of course, no Hogsmeade trip scheduled for this weekend. "Sneaking into Hogsmeade to buy him a butterbeer is reasonable?"

"It's reasonable for George," amended Bea. "Honestly, I thought I'd have to promise him my firstborn, or a kidney at the very least." She smiled and batted her eyes at me. "But the point is, I am willing to take the risk of being caught outside school grounds for the sake of your romance, my dear and darling friend."

"I'm honored, truly," I said tonelessly.

"You should be. I wouldn't do that for just anyone you know." She smirked. "But going back to your sex life…"

I gave the most dramatic sigh I could muster. "Must we?"

"Of course we must. I'm your best friend. You _have_ to tell me these things, it's practically the law. I've told you about all my activities in that area." She paused for a moment. "And also, I'm very nosy and I must know everything about everyone."

"I think you're primarily motivated by that second part."

"Oh, shut up," she said cheerfully, folding her hands on the table. "Now. You said you haven't talked about it that much, but surely you've thought about it."

I weighed my words carefully. "It just…it still feels rather early yet, you know? You waited, what, six months for your first?"

"Thereabouts." She shrugged. "Doesn't really matter though. You and I are different people and that was a different relationship. You might wait longer than I did; you might not."

"I mean…I suppose…"

She gave me a gentle sort of smile. "I know I've been teasing you about this, but I hope you don't think I want you to jump into something you aren't ready for. It shouldn't happen before you want it to happen."

"Are you quoting one of those teen magazines?"

"Actually, I'm quoting your sister."

I frowned. Bea had always been friendly with my sisters when they were still at Hogwarts, but not the degree that I thought they'd be having talks like that. "Which one of my sisters gave you a sex talk?"

She gave me a pointed look. "Which one of your sisters do you _think_ gave me a sex talk?"

"Honestly, any one of them. They are all rather assertive about that sort of thing. Annoyingly so."

"Well, it was Bianca. Last year when I was seeing Ralph and thinking about whether I wanted to have sex with him." She shrugged. "I couldn't exactly ask Mum and I had questions about it—necessary spells and charms, what to expect, and so on. And I thought Bianca might know so I asked."

"You never said anything to me about this."

"I didn't think the fact that we had a conversation about sex was earth shattering." She gave me a knowing look. "And historically, you've been rather cagey about discussions related to sex. Frankly, I'm rather shocked that your ears haven't gone all pink. They usually do."

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. "I just asked you for ideas for a birthday gift. How on earth did we get to discussing my sex life in the middle of the bloody common room?"

"Oh, settle down, no one's listening." She grinned. "Besides, I would argue that a birthday gift _could_ have some overlap with your sex life…"

"I was thinking more of something that comes with a gift receipt."

"Lingerie?"

" _Bea._ "

Beyond being just breathtakingly unhelpful with coming up with a birthday gift for Fred, this conversation did raise some points that I hadn't even thought to consider when Fred and I were hatching this scheme in the garden back in December. At what point would we need to consider crafting a fake sex life? Was I going to have to lie to Bea and say I'd lost my virginity when I hadn't? How would we even go about giving people the impression that we were having sex? If word got back to Aidan, what would he think? And if he and I ended up together and things got to the point where we were going to have sex, how would I explain my total lack of knowledge and inexperience? If it hurt the first time, was I a good enough actress to pretend it didn't?

There were no good answers to these questions and that made me feel rather dizzy and sick, to the point that I felt like I wouldn't even be able to raise the issue with Fred until it was an imminent problem and not just a hypothetical. Saying it all out loud was too much—I didn't really understand why, but it was.

And if that wasn't complicated enough, I knew without a doubt that he was going to be an insufferable git about it. The teasing would be merciless and he'd probably give me that stupid sort of smirk that seems designed to test my patience.

Bloody hell.

* * *

I didn't initially plan on asking Aidan for ideas for Fred's birthday gift, but there was a lull during one of our study sessions that left me feeling a little awkward and panicked and that just happened to be the first topic that came to mind.

"I dunno," said Aidan. "I'm not very good at gift giving, to tell you the truth."

"That doesn't mean that your input won't be useful," I said, feeling rather desperate to keep the conversation going. "You're also a teenage boy—if someone were to get you a really excellent birthday gift, what would it be?"

Aidan smiled. "Probably books. Weasley doesn't strike me as much of a reader, though."

There was something about this statement that bothered me, though I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

"Well, he does tend to be a little more active," I said lightly. "But I dunno, he might like a book if it's really relevant to his interests. You know, something like _500 Spells Argus Filch Doesn't Want You to Know_ , something like that."

Aidan chuckled. "That seems right in his wheelhouse."

"I just…I dunno, I feel like I've just got to get it right or it's a massive failure on my part even though it's not my fault."

"How do you mean?"

"Well…" I pressed my lips together. "I've never really had a proper boyfriend before, so I don't really know what I'm doing. But I still feel this massive pressure to get it absolutely right on the first go. Does that make sense?"

Aidan was giving me a sort of puzzled look. "…I suppose."

"That was utterly unconvincing."

He smiled and shrugged. "I mean…I dunno, it's just a gift. Relatively minor in the grand scheme of things, isn't it?"

I was starting to feel a sort of clawing desperation, like if I couldn't explain this properly, if I couldn't make him understand, there were dire consequences ahead, though I couldn't exactly articulate what those consequences might be. "I mean, yeah, it's a small thing, but it's still a thing I want to get right. Surely you understand that, you're in Ravenclaw."

He smiled and chuckled lightly. "I suppose that's fair, though the things I want to get right have more to do with knowledge than things like gifts."

"Well, then, think of it like an exam," I suggested. "It's a two part exam. Part one: how well do I know my boyfriend? Part two: how do I express that in a birthday gift?"

He seemed to think for a moment. "Er…perhaps a watch?" He ran a hand through his hair and laughed. "I told you I'm not very good at gift giving."

"He really isn't." Genevieve was sitting down in the empty seat next to Aidan and for a moment, I was desperately glad to see her. This conversation wasn't going quite the way I thought and it made me uncomfortable in a way that I couldn't quite articulate. "My birthday's at the end of June and I'm a little worried. Are you available for coaching? Maybe help point him in the right direction?"

"Of course." I forced a laugh through the lump in my throat. Helping choose a birthday gift for the girlfriend of the boy that I fancied was certainly a new level of sad that I had not previously explored.

"Genevieve's actually quite good at this sort of thing," said Aidan, draping an arm casually around her. "She probably has some better ideas that I've got."

"Almost certainly if we're talking about gifts," said Genevieve, poking Aidan playfully in the shoulder. "Who's the gift for?"

"Fred," I said. "His birthday is the first of April."

"Aha." Genevieve's eyes sparkled and she looked at Aidan. "Maybe you should go back to your dormitory a little early so Charlotte and I can have a bit of girly talk?"

Aidan raised an eyebrow. "I dunno, now I'm worried about what you're planning on saying."

Genevieve smiled and ruffled his hair. "Nothing you'd be unhappy with. Honestly, you'll probably find it a very dull discussion."

Aidan rolled his eyes but he smiled at her and started packing up his books. My heart sank just a little. The conversation hadn't exactly gone poorly, but it hadn't gone well and I felt rather sad that I didn't get the opportunity to at least end on a better note.

"All right, I expect you both to behave yourselves," said Aidan with a joking sort of sternness has he slung his bag over his shoulder. He leaned down and kissed Genevieve; I looked away, mostly out of habit. "And don't tell too many of my secrets."

"Go on," said Genevieve, poking him in the stomach. "I'll see you at dinner. I love you."

"Love you too. See you, Charlotte."

I almost didn't hear Aidan as he said goodbye. All I could hear were the words "I love you."

So they were in love. Aidan loved Genevieve. Genevieve loved Aidan.

The lump in my throat felt roughly the size of a boulder as another set of complicated emotional layers were added to this problem. There was, of course, a familiar sort of sadness that served as a base. Then there was the sort of sick and pathetic sort of feeling that nothing I'd done had made any difference. On top of that, the fear that I was doing something wrong, that I was in fact the villain in this story, that I had been making mistake after mistake since that moment in the garden. And now there was this added factor: I was effectively hoping for two people to stop loving each other.

"Charlotte?" Genevieve was looking at me, her brow crinkled slightly.

I took a deep breath and sat up straighter, pretending that posture was the sort of thing that would make a difference. I needed to focus. I needed to get through this conversation. Once I got through it, I could reflect on all the awful implications, all the stupid mistakes I had made.

 _Focus_.

"Sorry," I said, forcing my lips into a smile, hoping the worry wasn't showing in my eyes. "Got a bit lost in my own thoughts for a moment. What was it you were saying?"

"What is your best idea for Fred so far?"

"Well." I paused for a long moment. Aidan hadn't really offered anything useful and Bea certainly hadn't given me helpful suggestions. "I suppose…a nice set of quills?"

Genevieve wrinkled her nose. "I wouldn't go with that."

"It doesn't really seem like him, does it?"

"Not in the slightest. What sort of budget are you looking at?"

"I dunno, I suppose five Galleons at the most."

Genevieve nodded and pursed her lips. "Well, you could do a two part gift—maybe something that you know he wants and then some sort of experience that doesn't cost anything, like a very romantic date or something."

I nodded. "I suppose that could be one way to go about it. I could probably find something from Zonko's that he'd like and that I wouldn't regret. I'm not sure what I'd have to offer as far as an experience, though. A date seems rather ordinary."

Genevieve smirked. "Which is why I specified a very _romantic_ date."

I remembered as she said this that Aidan's birthday had been at the start of March. My stomach twisted a bit. Had she done this for Aidan? What sort of very romantic date had been included with his gift? When I'd seen them on Valentine's Day, he'd had his hand up her skirt—had they graduated to dates with bare skin and sweat? Was that why they were now trading _I love you_ s?

_Focus._

I forced a smile. "Have you been talking to Bea? I asked her for some ideas and all she gave me was innuendo."

Genevieve grinned. "Now Charlotte, I'm sure I don't know what you mean by that. There was absolutely no innuendo in that statement." She winked at me; my stomach felt like it was filled with stones.

"Well, I suppose I'll keep that in mind, then," I said.

Genevieve's gaze settled over my shoulder. "And speak of the devil…"

"Hey." The smell of citrus and sandalwood filled my nose and Fred was leaning down to kiss my cheek. "Did you actually outpace Kilbourne on studying? I didn't think that was possible."

"She's a talented lady, your girlfriend," said Genevieve.

"That she is." Fred nudged me. "Fancy a walk? It's actually half decent outside."

I had more studying I needed to do, but I knew there was no hope of regaining my focus after that conversation. "Yeah, that sounds nice."

"Do you mind terribly if I steal her away?" Fred asked Genevieve as I started gathering my notes and textbooks.

"Oh, I suppose I can allow it just this once." She smiled and looked at her watch. "I ought to be getting back to the common room anyway."

I shoved everything into my bag and stood up, hitching my bag onto my shoulder. "Thanks for your help, Genevieve."

"Anytime. Let me know what you decide on, yeah?"

"Will do. Cheers."

I walked with Fred out of the library. We'd both had Herbology that afternoon, so we still had our coats with us, though the air had the sort of chill that would have been bearable with a decent sweater and the rather giddying feeling of being able to go somewhere without a coat for the first time in months.

We didn't say anything until we were out on the grounds. Late March had given way to a sort of sad pre-spring where everything was muddy and thawing. The sky was the color of stone and everything felt a little bleak, which suited my mood rather appropriately.

"You look like you're thinking about something," said Fred as we wandered toward the Quidditch pitch.

I shrugged. "I'm always thinking about something, Fred."

His mouth curled into a crooked sort of half smile. "Fair point. You seem particularly contemplative, then. Perhaps even more so than usual, if that's possible."

"I aim to impress." I exhaled, puffing out my cheeks. "Aidan and Genevieve are evidently at the _I love you_ stage of their relationship. I suppose it caught me rather off guard."

He took my hand in his, threading his fingers through mine. "Are you upset?"

"Not upset so much as…wrestling with a moral dilemma."

He gave me a very stern look. "Are you brooding about whether you're a villain again? Because if you are, I'm going to have to chuck you into the lake and then that will turn _me_ into a villain."

"If you chuck me into the lake, I'm taking you with me."

"I thought you were trying to avoid becoming a villain. Chucking or otherwise relocating someone into a lake against their will is a hallmark of villainy."

"Unfortunately, this is what you have driven me to: madness and villainy."

He grinned and squeezed my hand. "You were warned. I'm a terrible influence."

I smiled and kicked a pebble and watched it skitter into the frozen grass.

"You're not a villain, you know," he said after a moment of quiet.

I sighed, my breath steaming in the chilly air. "I don't feel particularly good about it."

"But you still want to be with Aidan."

"Yes, I just…there's a whole reality to this plan that I find challenging. And I suppose that's my fault for not thinking of that before but…" I shrugged. "I dunno, I just don't feel particularly good about it right now."

"How do you mean?"

"Breaking up two people who are in love—or hoping for them to break up—I dunno, it doesn't exactly seem like the sort of thing a good person does, you know?"

"Are they really in love, though?" asked Fred. "Or is it lust?"

"That's very cynical of you."

"I don't mean it in a cynical way." We'd reached the Quidditch pitch. "Looks a bit muddy," he said. "D'you want to go up into the stands or head somewhere else?"

I shrugged. "I suppose we can go up into the stands. Gives us somewhere to sit, anyway."

"All right."

We climbed up into the stands, choosing seats not very far from where we'd sat the last time that we were up there.

"Well, if you didn't mean it in a cynical way, how did you mean it?" I asked once we'd sat down. I propped my feet up on the seats below us. Mud was caked on the bottoms of my shoes.

"I meant that they're sixteen and seventeen," said Fred, settling in next to me and propping his feet up next to mine. "There's just a lot of snogging and shagging going on in general and it's not always meaningful in the long term."

I frowned as I scraped the bottom of my shoe against the edge of the seat. "Your grand explanation is hormones?"

He shrugged. "Why not?"

"That seems like an overly simplistic way of looking at it."

He looked at me with a wicked sort of grin. "Lewis, about half the kissing that you and I do isn't _strictly_ necessary for the purposes of our dastardly plan, we just do it because we're driven mad by hormones."

I folded my arms across my chest. "I don't appreciate your idle speculation, sir."

"That's hardly idle speculation. How many times have we snogged in some place where no one's going to see us? Those instances are strictly for our own personal enjoyment and since this is a fake relationship, one can reasonably conclude that hormones are the culprit." His eyes sparkled with mischief and I suddenly understood that I'd wandered into a trap.

"I'd like to clarify that that was not a challenge to try and prove me wrong," I added.

"You're only saying that because you know you'd be wrong."

He was right, but I wasn't about to admit that.

"I'm saying that because we're in the middle of a serious conversation about something else," I said, giving him a stern look.

He smiled a little—like he didn't quite believe that was the whole story, but he wasn't going to push me on it—and put his arm around my shoulder.

"My point was that a lot of love at this age seems to end up being a temporary sort of thing," he said. "Or people are more likely to get snogging and shagging confused with love because it's all rather new and no one knows what they're doing."

I sighed. "I don't think that justifies breaking someone up or hoping that they break up. I mean, if Aidan and Genevieve can't tell whether or not they're in love, I certainly can't tell whether my potential relationship with Aidan would result in real love." I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the stands. "Not that I think any of this is working anyway."

"That's the spirit."

I laughed weakly. "Well, what about you? Do you think it's working? Have you noticed a change with Angelina?"

I felt him shrug. "I haven't lost hope. Angelina's a bit difficult to read on this sort of thing. Better to let her come to me rather than try to draw conclusions at this point."

I shook my head and straightened up. "I don't know how you can be so calm about all this."

He gave me a crooked sort of smile. "Lewis, when you've devoted as much time and energy as I have to practical jokes, you really learn the value of patience."

I smiled. "I suppose that's true."

He reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His hand slid to the back of my neck and suddenly he was pulling me toward him and kissing me with a sort of passion that left me feeling a little breathless and flushed. His teeth grazed my lower lip and that was all it took for me to tangle my hands in his hair and pull myself closer to him.

After about five minutes of this, he pulled away from me with an enormous smile on his face and I realized immediately that I'd been had.

"I told you I was right," he said.

I shoved him, but I was laughing. "You're an idiot."

"I'm brilliant and you know it." He laughed and looked at his watch. "We should probably get in, dinner is starting soon."

There was the slightest hint of warmth in the wind as we walked back to the castle. Spring was on its way—and summer wouldn't be long after.

* * *

Although I was skeptical at first, Genevieve's advice turned out to be good. Three days before Fred's birthday, inspiration finally struck and I managed to come up with a two-part gift: one thing that I thought he'd like and one experience. Two things that felt appropriate for a fake boyfriend who also happens to know all of your secrets and weird quirks.

I had always known that Fred and George's birthday was the first of April, even before the onset of our dastardly plans. It was the sort of fact that was difficult to miss if you were anywhere within a mile radius of either Fred or George on their birthday. April Fool's Day in itself was a concept that was all but tailor-made for them: when you combined that with a birthday, the result was not unlike trying to bottle a lit firecracker.

Classes that day were a challenge, to say the least. I'd given Fred so many stern looks and subtle kicks to the shin that I was starting to feel a little guilty about it—although, honestly, messing about in Potions is just about the dumbest thing you can do. Between Snape's temper and the unpredictable and unpleasant effects of half-brewed potions, there's an entire range of unpleasant effects that you can bring upon yourself and other people who are just trying to finish their assignment in peace, thank you.

But still: it _was_ his birthday.

Bea evidently did not have similar reservations: I overheard her telling George quite plainly that if he insisted on behaving like an idiot in front of a lit cauldron, she was going to push him in and make it look like an accident, birthday or not.

George just laughed; I couldn't quite decide if this was a display of good humor or hubris on his part. Possibly, it was both.

I skipped studying with Aidan in the library in favor of the common room, where Fred and George were holding court. At some point during the day, they'd both acquired paper crowns and were handing out sweets that I suspected were likely a result of an illicit Hogsmeade run. The common room was loud with laughter and chatter.

And oddly, this was one of the first times I felt rather strange and out of place in my brief career as Fred's fake girlfriend. I sat on the couch in the common room, smiling politely while Fred was distracted by scores of well-wishers who didn't really know me, but evidently knew Fred. There were games of wizard's chess and Exploding Snap and some Muggle board games that I didn't recognize and when he and Angelina partnered up on a game of Gobstones against Lee, I couldn't quite find it in myself to be happy for him. Bea had gone in search of Flitwick after class had ended to discuss (read: argue about) her marks on an essay that we'd just gotten back, so I didn't even have her to talk to.

I was sitting and thinking and trying not to look like I was brooding when Fred's sister Ginny plopped down next to me on the couch. I knew her by sight, but my interaction with her had been minimal at best. She gave me an appraising sort of look.

"So. You're Fred's girlfriend."

"That would be me."

"Is he blackmailing you?" she asked. "I thought I'd ask while he was distracted so you could answer honestly."

My lips curled into a smile. "No, I'm afraid not. I've taken leave of my own senses and good judgment of my own free will."

Ginny's expression remained serious, but her eyes sparkled with a sort of mischief that I'd often observed from Fred. "Well, if that should change, we'll need to have a way to communicate. Wear a red ribbon in your hair and I'll know to look for your escape note under the clock on the mantelpiece."

"He'll never suspect that."

"Not a chance." Ginny grinned at last. "So. What sort of embarrassing childhood stories can I provide you with?"

"Does Fred have any? He seems like he's rather difficult to embarrass."

"Oh, loads." She smiled conspiratorially. "Mum once had to spell his finger away from his nose because he wouldn't stop picking it."

I hid a smile behind my hand. "You can't be serious."

"It's true." Ginny squinted thoughtfully. "Let's see…he slept with a cuddly rabbit called Muttsy until he went away to Hogwarts."

"Well, that's rather sweet."

"I know, but he hates whenever I mention it, so I'm obligated to share. Oh, he used to be afraid of this massive grey tabby that sometimes turned up in our garden—"

"All right, what lies are you feeding her?" Fred had made his way back over and was squeezing in between the two of us on the couch.

Ginny smiled serenely at Fred. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean. I'd never lie about you."

"I didn't know you had a rabbit called Muttsy," I said, nudging him with my elbow.

Fred stared at Ginny with a look of horror. "You little traitor."

"I said I didn't tell any lies," she said, shrugging.

"I think it's sweet," I said, reaching up to pinch Fred's cheeks.

He swatted my hand away. "You know, it _is_ my birthday. One of the only days of the year when you're meant to be nice to me and all I'm getting is abuse."

"Are you implying that we're supposed to be coddling you? I thought you were made of sterner stuff than that, Weasley."

"You can coddle me a _little_ ," said Fred, draping an arm around my shoulder.

"I wouldn't want to set a precedent that I couldn't maintain."

Ginny looked at Fred. "I like her."

"'Course you do. I have excellent taste in all aspects of my life," said Fred.

"It's rather impressive that you somehow managed to find a way to turn a compliment about me into a compliment about you."

"In addition to having excellent taste, I am also very impressive."

I sighed and looked at Ginny. "Has he always been like this?"

"Pretty much." She shrugged. "Mum says she thinks he got about three times the confidence that he should've."

Fred sighed. "She always says that like it's a bad thing."

"It can be," said Ginny.

Fred frowned. "Don't you have somewhere else to be? Literally anywhere else?"

Ginny checked her watch. "Actually, yes, sadly. I'm due to meet McGonagall."

Fred raised his eyebrows. "In trouble again?"

"Sitting for the exam that I missed while I was ill last week," she said, standing. She narrowed her eyes. "And don't you dare write Mum and tell her otherwise."

"Now why would I do that?" said Fred with mock offense. "It's not like you just shared several embarrassing secrets with my girlfriend or something horrid that would completely justify that course of action…"

"Do it and I'll make you regret it for the rest of your days," sang Ginny over her shoulder.

"Thing is, she probably would," said Fred as Ginny walked out the portrait hole. "Better not to risk it."

The portrait hole swung open again and Bea trudged into the common room, looking rather harried and somewhat tired. She spotted me and made her way over.

"How'd it go?" I asked as she collapsed on Ginny's spot on the couch with a sigh.

"Eh," she shrugged. "He said the overall argument I presented in my essay was not nearly as strong as it could have been. 'Not your usual caliber of work, Miss Pierce.'" Her impression of Flitwick's high-pitched squeak was eerily spot on.

"So no change?"

Bea shook her head. "He kept saying that Acceptable was a perfectly reasonable mark. He did give ten points to Gryffindor for my 'spirited defense' of my essay, though I suspect that was mostly to make me go away."

"Wouldn't be the first time that's happened."

Bea grinned. "No, not with Flitwick."

A chocolate frog sailed through the air and very nearly hit Bea in the face. She caught it clumsily and looked up with a stern expression on her face. "George Weasley, did you ask for an early death for your birthday? Because if you keep this nonsense up, you just might get it."

George was—predictably—unrepentant. "Is that any way to speak to someone who just gave you a chocolate frog? On _his_ birthday, no less?"

"No jury in the world would convict me." Bea opened her bag and withdrew a neatly wrapped square package. "Nonetheless, it is your birthday, and I did get you something, despite your continuously obnoxious behavior. Notice how I'm handing it to you like a civilized person instead of chucking it at your face."

"I didn't chuck it at your face, you just didn't catch it properly." George took the package from Bea, weighing it skeptically in his hands. "I dunno, Bea, this seems like it could be a trap, especially given that you just threatened me mere moments ago."

Bea sighed. "Well, _that_ would have been a brilliant idea if I'd thought of it in time. And sadly, you cannot gift wrap an early death, so it's rather ordinary. But I'll make a note for next year."

George gave her a crooked sort of grin as he began unwrapping the gift.

"Fred, I'm afraid I didn't get you anything because this ended up being a little more expensive than my budget allowed," said Bea. "And really, I think it's something you'll enjoy as well. All of us, really. Except Charlotte."

"Well, that sounds intriguing," said Fred.

My eyes narrowed. "What do you—"

" _Excellent_!" said George, laughing. He held up the gift.

It was a notebook—a rather nice notebook, in fact, with a rich leather cover. Embossed on the cover in gold lettering were the words "That Damn Notebook."

"Our friendship is over. You know that, right?" I said to Bea.

"Oh, you don't mean it," she said, waving her hand at me dismissively.

"I most certainly do. I didn't give Fred a birthday gift that was designed with the express purpose of irritating you and yet you betray me like this?"

"Well, wait a moment, you didn't tell me what you got Fred, so you could just be saying that it won't irritate me."

"I haven't given it to him yet, so I can't tell you." I looked at Fred. "When you have a moment, I do have a gift for you."

George gave a low wolf whistle and Bea waggled her eyebrows. I glared at both of them. "You have filthy minds."

"I don't understand why she's saying it like that's a problem," said Bea to George.

He shrugged. "Search me."

Fred's gaze shifted between my irritated expression and the gleeful twinkle in Bea and George's eyes. "You know what, I've got a moment now. Why don't we go for a walk?"

George gave another wolf whistle; Bea snorted.

"No, I think I need to stay here," I said. "I've got some things I need to take care of."

"Yes, well, I'd rather not have to dispose of two bodies," said Fred, pulling me to my feet. "It _is_ my birthday, you know, and I'm just about out of hiding places anyway."

I picked up my bag where I'd stashed his gift and jabbed a finger at Bea and George. "I'm only going along with this plan because it's his birthday. The two of you'd better sleep with one eye open."

Neither one of them looked particularly worried about this, which I suppose was a typical response.

I followed Fred out of the common room after sending one final glare over my shoulder at Bea and George, who were already absorbed in another conversation.

"You didn't have to get me anything," said Fred as soon as we were in the corridor. "I'm only a fake boyfriend."

"Yes, but you're still a friend," I said. "It's nothing big. You might not even like it. I just thought it might be something that you would enjoy, but I could be wrong—"

I was babbling and I wasn't entirely sure why. Fred bumped his shoulder against mine, a small smile pulling at his lips.

"I'm sure it's brilliant."

"Well…" I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling rather embarrassed, though I couldn't work out why exactly. We passed an empty classroom and impulsively, I opened the door. "Here, this is probably good enough for our purposes."

I set my bag on one of the desks and opened it, looking for the gift. Fred hopped up on the desk.

"So." I took the gift out of my bag. The wrapping was a little wrinkled, but it looked well enough. "This is actually in two parts that are entirely unrelated to each other. So: part one." I handed him the gift.

"This looks rather book-shaped," he said with a grin as he began unwrapping the gift.

"Well, you'll have to see, won't you?"

He pulled the rest of the paper off to reveal a green leather bound book with gold lettering.

"It's a collection of Muggle fairy tales," I said quickly as he examined the book. "It's rather silly, but you've always seem rather amused when I've told you about Cinderella and such, so I thought you might think it was a bit of a laugh. I can return it if you don't like it, I won't be upset, honest."

I was babbling again and I couldn't quite explain why I felt so anxious about the whole endeavor. It was just a birthday gift. It wasn't like I'd got him something completely inappropriate or extravagant.

But then I realized that he was smiling in a genuinely delighted sort of way and that nervous, anxious knot that had been twisting in my stomach eased a bit.

"This is absolutely brilliant," he said, pulling me into a hug and pressing a kiss to my temple. "I would have never thought of something like this. That's how brilliant it is. I didn't even know how much I wanted it."

"Well." I shrugged, my cheeks feeling a little flushed. "I'm glad you like it."

"I love it." He scanned the table of contents. "The other night when you said that perplexing thing about the gingerbread house—which one was that?"

" _Hansel and Gretel._ There's another one called _Jack and the Beanstalk_ that I think you'll find particularly baffling."

He grinned. "I'm going to have to read this when you're around because I'm fairly certain that I'm going to have questions." He shut the book and set it aside. "Thank you, Charlotte."

"You're quite welcome. Are you ready for part two?"

"Absolutely."

I took a deep breath. "Since you're seventeen, I'm giving you seventeen minutes."

He raised an eyebrow. "Seventeen minutes of what?"

"I will stay out with you for a full seventeen minutes past the curfew bell."

His eyes lit up with sheer and utter delight. "You're joking."

"I am completely serious. I will willfully flout school rules with you for a full seventeen minutes in honor of your birthday."

"Tonight?"

"It can be a mutually agreeable night of your choosing."

"I think it has to be tonight," he said, grinning. "What better way to end a birthday than to end a birthday than by intentionally violating the rules with Charlotte Lewis, the most notorious rule follower in the entire noble history of Hogwarts?"

* * *

And so that is how I ended up sneaking up to the Astronomy Tower ten minutes before the curfew bell.

"Why here?" I asked as we climbed the stairs.

"We haven't been here before," said Fred. "And it's a rather plausible cover story if we get caught."

My stomach lurched at the thought of getting caught. "What, that we came up here to do homework? Seems a bit far-fetched, especially because neither one of us is taking Astronomy."

Fred took a seat on the stone floor, his back pressed up against the wall. He patted the floor next to him. "Not homework, snogging."

I sat down beside him. "Do you mean to tell me that if, say, Professor Snape were to catch us, the excuse you would give would be 'sorry, Professor, we were snogging at the top of the Astronomy Tower?'"

He clucked his tongue at me. "Of course not. I'd say something like we wanted to watch the stars together and it was just so romantic we lost track of the time and you can't hear the bells up here terribly well, otherwise we surely would have come down straightaway when we heard the warning bell."

"I think he'd still assume we were snogging."

"Almost certainly, but you don't _say_ that." He shook his head and sighed. "Here I was thinking that you had ascended to the elite ranks of rule breaking and you come up with that nonsense."

"I'm so sorry to disappoint you."

"Clearly I've more work to do."

We sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. I liked that I could be quiet with Fred sometimes. It never seemed awkward or stilted. That was the sort of thing I wouldn't have expected from him, before all this happened. It was a pleasant surprise.

"When's your birthday?" asked Fred after a moment. "I don't think I actually know."

I smiled, staring at the night sky—it was a little cloudy, but I could make out Jupiter and Arcturus. "The twentieth of May."

"Good. That gives me nearly two months to think of something really excellent to give you."

"You could give me seventeen minutes of not breaking the rules," I suggested with a sly smile.

He laughed. "I'm not going to promise you something I know is an impossibility."

"How very thoughtful of you."

He grinned and checked his watch. "It's officially fifteen seconds past the curfew bell." He looked at me. "Do you feel any different?"

"About the same. In fact, this is almost underwhelming."

He gave me a skeptical look. "You're twisting your hands, which usually means you're nervous."

My hands froze in my lap. He was right and that was always irritating. "Well, I'm afraid you've caught me out, Fred: I am still the very boring Charlotte Lewis you have come to know and adore, which means that I'm fretting about at least one thing, if not more. 'Daring but anxious, isn't that what I said my personal crest was?'" I asked.

"Something to that effect."

"My crest should have that written in Latin, and then perhaps a lion that looks very nervous about something. Maybe a mouse."

"I'd like to propose some corrections."

"Oh, this should be good."

"I believe I've previously stated that 'daring but _undeservedly_ anxious' was far more appropriate," he said, ignoring me. "So if we're going with the more accurate portrayal, it ought to be a lion that has a number of medals for being an excellent lion while struggling with existential fear that of not being a good enough lion."

I laughed. "I think you're overestimating what can reasonably be depicted on a crest."

"That's why my crest will have a normal sized lion that thinks it's the size of an elephant."

"That seems accurate." I snuck a glance at his watch. Two minutes had passed. He noticed me looking and grinned.

"Oh, come on, Lewis," he said, bumping his shoulder against mine. "You can't watch the clock the entire time."

"I'm just keeping an eye on the time," I said primly. "I promised you seventeen minutes, not seventy."

He pushed his watch down so that it was covered by the sleeve of his shirt. "I'll watch the time."

"I'm not certain that I trust you to do that."

"Well, if you do it, you're just going to be anxiously looking at my watch every thirty seconds and we can't have that." He sighed happily. "This is really the best birthday ever. I've got you breaking curfew and you're finally forced to give me the trust that I so obviously deserve."

"One of these days, you're going to give me a stomach ulcer and then you'll feel very guilty about all this."

"Will you name it after me?"

"Obviously."

"Well, I'm going to have to continue then," he said with the sort of slightly too cheeky grin that told me I had made some sort of error in my response. He put an arm around my shoulder. "Having an ulcer named after you is an honor, you know."

I grumbled, but I leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder. We were quiet again as we watched the night sky. There was a sudden flash of light and a shooting star streaked past Jupiter.

"Make a wish," I said quietly.

"Why?"

"There's a shooting star _and_ it's your birthday. You're practically guaranteed to have your wish come true."

"I didn't take you for the type who believes in that sort of thing."

I shrugged. "Why not? It doesn't hurt anyone. And I've always liked the idea that there are these very ordinary things that might be able to grant wishes."

"Why's that?"

"I dunno, just the idea that there's something like that that can change your lot feels uplifting. Everyone has a birthday. Everyone can look up and see the same night sky. You don't need money or influence to have either of those things."

"That's rather poetic of you."

"It's just something I've thought about. I've spent some time staring at the stars and wishing."

"For what?"

"I can't tell you that, it won't come true."

"That seems like a silly rule."

"Well, I'm not the one who made it." I paused for a moment. "Did you make your wish?"

Fred chuckled quietly. "I think I've probably exceeded the statute of limitations for wishing on that particular star."

"Just watch, there'll be another."

I don't know why I said that with any amount of confidence, but I was certain. We were quiet for a few minutes, watching the night sky together.

And then: "There."

I held my breath as I watched the star shoot across the sky. I didn't make a wish then and I told myself it was because I was saving that star for Fred, that if two people wished on the same shooting star, it wasn't as powerful as one person wishing alone.

That was what I told myself, anyway.

"Did you make a wish?" I asked.

"Yep." He turned his wrist toward me so I could see his watch. "And you must have made your own because it is now seventeen minutes past the curfew bell."

I laughed, but I didn't bother correcting him. "Happy birthday, Fred."

He squeezed my shoulders. "Thanks, Charlotte."

Later, under a different night sky, I would understand why I hadn't made a wish that night, that it had very little to do with two people wishing on one star. The reality was that in that briefest of seconds when the shooting star had blazed into being like some god had struck a match on the night sky, I didn't know what to wish for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for following this story and posting your feedback! I'm continually surprised and delighted that people seem to enjoy this and your feedback makes my day.
> 
> There are several moments in this story where "Bright" by Echosmith is the perfect soundtrack. The end of this chapter is the first one. There will be others.
> 
> I decided that I needed to make a Tumblr and Twitter for my fanfic because why not? You can follow me at akabluekat on both platforms. I'm 60% sure I know how to use Tumblr, so that should be particularly interesting. launched the add a story feature a little while ago and I'm working on adding my fics there.
> 
> October is going to be a pretty busy month for me. I'm hoping to have the next chapter posted by the end of October 2018, but there is a chance it might be closer to mid-November, depending on how crazy things get.


	16. Another Dastardly Plan

You have probably noticed a theme in this account: despite my tendency to overanalyze and overthink, I have a tendency to miss hints and clues that are glaringly obvious. If I'm being entirely honest, you probably have a better idea of what's going to happen in this story than I did when I was going through it. And while it wasn't until summer that my carefully woven tapestry began to unravel, I began picking at those threads much earlier than that—and there were two events in the spring—one in April and one in May—that would have clued me in if I'd been paying attention.

It was a Saturday afternoon in mid April and I was studying in the common room for an upcoming Charms exam. I was sitting on my usual couch with Fred, who was lying on his back with his head in my lap, the book of fairy tales I'd given him propped up on his stomach. I'd reached the point where my eyes were starting to itch to look at anything other than my textbook or notes, but I still had enough to do that a break still seemed out of reach. I set my textbook aside and rubbed my eyes.

"Ready for a break?" asked Fred, looking up at me.

"I'd like to get through this chapter first," I said. "I just need to rest my eyes for a moment."

"Suit yourself." He looked back at his book and frowned. "I'm not entirely certain that I understand the motivations of this sea witch. She's performing some very complex magic for very little payoff."

A smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. "And what would be your going rate for turning a mermaid into a human?"

"I'd ask for something better than a voice, I can tell you that." He tapped the illustration of the sea witch. "I mean, look at this. It's no wonder she's living in a cave in the depths of the ocean, she's drastically underpricing her services. She could have a proper underwater mansion if she were doing this right."

"Should I be concerned about you turning into a fairy tale villain?"

"Only in the sense that I would be utterly unstoppable if this is the caliber of villain that they're dealing with. No one thinks anything through. And the mermaid's no better, she's not even properly met this prince and she's gambling her soul…"

I bit back a smile and ruffled his hair as he returned to reading. I rubbed my eyes again. Was it possible for your eye muscles to become so fatigued that your eyes just gave up and rolled out of your head? It certainly felt like it.

My gaze eventually drifted to Bea and George, who were sitting at one of the tables and studying. Or, rather, Bea was trying to study and George seemed to be doing his best to distract her from studying. I watched them for a moment, idly playing with Fred's hair.

The sunlight was pouring in from the open window and from here, it looked a bit like Bea had a halo, especially with her hair all loose and curly around her shoulders. George had his chin propped up in his hands and was saying something with the same wide sort of grin that I often saw from Fred—the one that always told me when he was up to no good. Bea looked up from her notes and said something back to him, her lips curled into a sarcastic sort of smirk. George nudged her shin under the table and said something, his grin growing wider. She chucked her quill at him and he barely dodged it, laughing when it spattered ink on the edge of his shirt.

Something was beginning to take shape in my mind as I considered George's presence at the table, all the times I'd seen him touch Bea's arm or shoulder, the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners when she made him laugh, fact that he seemed completely unbothered by the ink that now stained the collar of his shirt.

"Is your brother macking on my best friend?" I asked Fred quietly.

"Yes," he said, without looking up from his book.

"You didn't even look!"

"Didn't have to," he said shrugging, his eyes still on the text. "He's been doing that since she dumped what's-his-face. Or he got more obvious about it since then." His face fell and he sighed, clucking his tongue. "What did I tell you? You can't just go and gamble your soul on some idiot you've barely met, of course it's going to end poorly."

"Fred Weasley, if you genuinely think that we are going to discuss  _The Little Mermaid_  instead of the information that you just shared with me, you are sorely mistaken and quite possibly delusional."

"Nothing about this story makes sense. It's even more ridiculous than the one with the princess in the tower with the very long hair." He shut the book and looked up at me, eyebrows raised. "But did you really not notice?"

"No." I felt rather guilty about this. I  _should_  have noticed. A best friend  _should_  notice when a boy is flirting with you, especially if that boy is a friend of yours. A best friend  _should_  be prepared to then inform you of this occurrence so that you can analyze it within an inch of its life.

A best friend should  _not_  be so wrapped up in her own problems that she develops a weird sort of tunnel vision and misses this critical development for a period of several months.

I looked at them again. Bea's head was bent over her notes, but George was still talking, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

It was so obvious. He made her a commemorative coin when she dumped Devereux. Merlin's tit, how could I  _miss_  that?

"Has Bea noticed?" asked Fred.

I paused in my guilt spiral for just a moment as I assessed the situation. Initially, I thought she had to have noticed—it was  _so_  obvious—but the more I thought about it, the more doubtful I became.

"You know, I'm not sure," I said, watching her carefully. "She almost certainly would have said something to me about it if she had and she hasn't."

"Did the two of you make a pact to just completely ignore everything that's going on around you?"

I looked away from Bea and George to give a stern look to Fred, poking him in the shoulder for good measure. "Listen, just because you can read George's thoughts doesn't mean that the rest of us can."

Fred wrinkled his nose and sat up, draping an arm around my shoulder. "I don't want to read George's thoughts. He's got a dark and twisted mind—my sensibilities are far too delicate."

"First off, he's your identical twin, which means that it's far more likely that you've got the same dark and twisted mind. Two, if you have delicate sensibilities, I'll eat my hat."

He grinned at me. "Though you are unobservant, you are fair."

"I'm not unobservant!" I protested, swatting him on the chest. "I've been preoccupied."

Fred raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Preoccupied maybe, but he's been following her around like a puppy for  _months_."

"I thought it was out of convenience. You know, with the two of us being off somewhere on a date or what have you. That's what Bea told me, anyway."

Fred shrugged. "It might have been to start, but now I think that's just a convenient excuse for him." The raised eyebrow returned. "Besides, he's been following her around at other times as well, not just when we're together."

I don't think he meant to, but Fred's reminders of all the clues that I'd missed were only adding to the guilt that sat heavy as a stone in the pit of my stomach. I should have known. I needed to do better—what could I do to make up for it?

"Well, should I say something to her, d'you think?" I asked. Maybe I could at least steer her in the right direction.

Fred shook his head. "Don't. George won't like it."

"Why not?"

"He prefers to be a bit more direct."

An incredulous laugh escaped my lips. "How does following her around like a puppy for months qualify as direct?"

"I didn't say it made sense, I said he wouldn't like it. There's a big difference."

I pressed on, unwilling to so easily cede a chance to atone for my mistake. "Well, she doesn't have to know that I'm asking her about it because George has taken a fancy to  _her_ in particular. I could ask a few questions without raising her suspicion."

"Like what?"

"Oh, you know, 'Fred thinks George fancies someone but he's not telling him who, what do you think?' That's suitably vague, right?"

Fred chewed his lip thoughtfully, drumming his fingertips on my shoulder. "That might be all right as long as it's related to whatever you were talking about. I think she'd suspect if you brought it up out of nowhere."

"Obviously." I hesitated for a second. "I'm assuming that you don't want me to say anything to George."

Fred looked at me like I'd just suggested he might enjoy socializing with Snape and Filch over afternoon tea. "Lewis. Are you  _trying_  to get me in trouble?"

"I was just asking," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. "It's called communication, Weasley. Most functional human relationships have it."

He tugged on a strand of my hair. "Mind yourself, Lewis: you're going to need me if you want to successfully maneuver those two into a relationship."

"Who said anything about that?" I said, swatting his hand away from my hair. "I only said I'd speak with her and see what I could find out."

"That's basically the same thing." His eyes glinted with that gleeful sort of mischief and he lowered his voice. "Think about it. We've plotted together on our respective relationships. Don't you think it's time to take our collaboration to the next level and use our devious talents to help others?"

I smiled wryly and quirked an eyebrow at him. "You neglect to mention the fact that we've been collaborating since December, and have yet to produce any tangible results other than our fake relationship."

"We've made progress and you know it," said Fred. His grin suddenly turned wicked. "Besides, you've had the benefit of snogging privileges with a handsome fellow whenever you fancy, so don't pretend you're not getting anything out of it."

I rolled my eyes and attempted to poke him in the stomach. "Snogging privileges with a raging egomaniac who gives me unending grief."

He caught me by the wrists and gave me his most charming smile. "Come on, Lewis. You and I both know that you can't resist a good dastardly plan, especially one that involves sticking your nose into Bea's business."

My motivations were slightly more benevolent than he was giving me credit for—I did genuinely want to help Bea and make up for the fact that I'd somehow managed to miss a rather important development in her life because I was so wrapped up in mine—but he had me and he knew it.

I pressed my lips together for a moment, holding his gaze. "All right, fine."

"I knew it," he said with a triumphant grin. He released my hands, only to place his palms against mine, threading my fingers through his own. "So what's our strategy on this?"

"We have a strategy?"

"Of course we have a strategy," he scoffed, as though he were offended by the very notion of not having one. "It's a dastardly plan, isn't it?"

I tapped my fingers against his knuckles. I'd never really noticed before, but he had very long and elegant hands, the kind that a concert pianist would envy. "Well, I'm going to see if I can find out anything from Bea without tipping her off." I thought for a moment. "I don't suppose there's any chance that George has been using the damn notebook as a secret diary where he's confessed all his feelings?"

Fred raised an eyebrow, the right side of his mouth curling up into a wry sort of half-grin. "Do you really think George is the secret diary type?"

I sighed. "I was hoping he was. Might make things easier." I paused for a moment. "Also because he's been carrying that damn thing around for four months for the exclusive purpose of irritating me and I will stop at no means to be rid of it permanently."

Fred gave me a very solemn look. "This is going to end with you turning to the Dark Arts as a solution, isn't it?"

"I mean, I haven't ruled it out. That notebook is extremely irritating."

"While I am intrigued by the concept of you delving into the Dark Arts in order to settle a petty grievance, I'm afraid we need to change the subject because Bea and George are now headed this way," said Fred, his eyes flicking briefly over my shoulder.

"We should probably come up with proper code names for them as well."

"I'll have my short list ready by tomorrow."

"Charlotte." Bea was approaching us followed by—no surprise—George. "We're going to go to lunch before I finally snap and turn George into something useful, like a coatrack. Do you want to come along or are you still working?"

"Have you noticed she has a tendency toward violence when she's hungry?" said George lightly, his mouth twitching with a barely suppressed grin.

"She's completely harmless. You know that, right?" I said, ignoring the subsequent scowl that Bea aimed in my direction.

"One day, you're going to regret underestimating me," said Bea.

"Yes, yes, you're very frightening," said George, ruffling her hair and grinning despite the withering look that Bea was giving him.

Bea sighed and looked at me. "Are you coming or am I suffering alone?"

"Suffering alone, I'm afraid," I said, giving her an apologetic sort of smile that I didn't really mean. I wasn't sorry I was abandoning her: it was for her own good. She would thank me one day. Probably. "I've got a bit more to do yet."

Bea gave George a grim sort of look. "All right, come along, He Who Shall Soon Be a Coatrack."

"You don't have to sound so disappointed," he said as they walked away. "And you know I'd much rather be something fun, like a radio or a record player."

"I'd sound less disappointed if I knew you weren't going to be irritating," said Bea archly. "And I wouldn't turn you into either one of those things because you could still make noise, which, as I have explained to you repeatedly, is the entire problem to begin with."

"Oh, you don't mean that, you'd be lost without me…"

The sounds of their banter faded as the portrait hole swung shut behind them. Fred turned and gave me a rather pointed look, both eyebrows raised.

"You  _really_  hadn't noticed?" he said.

"Oh go on, it's not  _that_  obvious," I grumbled at him.

"The only way it could be more obvious would be if he got a jumper that said, 'Date me.'" He looked thoughtful. "Actually, that's not a half bad idea. Mum could probably have that knitted up by the end of term."

I wasn't entirely certain if he was joking or not, which is generally the sort of thing that makes me rather nervous. "Let's try proper channels first before we resort to knitwear," I said, picking up my textbook. "And I'm sure she's a lovely woman, but I imagine George wouldn't appreciate you getting your mother involved in this."

Fred winced. "Yeah, didn't think that one through."

"You often don't."

He placed a hand against his heart. "Another cutting remark. You wound me, Lewis."

I grinned at him as I opened my textbook again. "You ought to be used to it by now, Weasley."

* * *

I had decided on the spot that the only way to assuage the guilt that I felt about the whole situation was to throw myself into resolving it. The fact that this wasn't technically any of my business was not at all discouraging to me. As far as I was concerned, Bea was now reaping what she'd been sowing for the last four months: a best friend who was unapologetically nosy about her personal life.

I also felt that both Bea and George at least deserved to have an honest conversation about whatever was happening or not happening between the two of them and I wasn't entirely certain if that would happen absent some sort of intervention, what with George's strategy of being direct by not saying anything combined with Bea's apparent obliviousness.

The more complicating factor, of course, was the fact that Bea had decided to swear off relationships for a while, a decision that she seemed to be committed to, a full two months post-Devereux. This in itself was unusual: the time in between Bea's relationships had always been very brief. Two months was unheard of.

Initially, I balked at this. She said she needed a break from relationships: who was I to interfere with that? But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the problem wasn't relationships themselves so much as it was the people involved. To put it plainly, Bea had dated a lot of idiots; to put it even more plainly, Bea had almost exclusively dated idiots. Every time one of her relationships ended, there was a secret part of me that was always a little relieved because the boyfriend in question inevitably didn't appreciate her to the extent that she so clearly deserved. Devereux was perhaps the most extreme of these examples—to my knowledge, he had no redeeming qualities, other than a talent for kissing. Caleb Flores, the boyfriend before Devereux, took passive aggressiveness and made it a fine art form; Ralph Kleinman expected her to be available for him at the drop of a hat, but thought nothing of canceling a date at the last minute for any number of stupid reasons. Seth Cramer had a habit of belittling her intelligence. Kevin Kerrigan was boring, but otherwise inoffensive, and Joe Callahan, in his last official act as her boyfriend, had called her by another girl's name.

But George? George wasn't like any of the boys she'd dated before. Granted: he could be an idiot. But George being an idiot was largely confined to practical jokes and breaking school rules. And for all my personal feelings about rule following and good behavior, deep down I knew that a lot of those things didn't matter in the grand scheme of things. Getting a detention for, say, filling the boys' bathroom on the second floor with toads (which is less of a hypothetical and more of an actual thing that he and Fred did during second year) was not in the same category as treating your girlfriend like rubbish.

All the little things I'd witnessed—the commemorative coin, their scheming over that damn notebook, their inside jokes and easy banter, the ink stain on the collar of his shirt and his easy smile—those things put together said something important. George knew exactly who Bea was—sharp, sarcastic, wickedly funny, fierce, and smart. He may have started hanging around with her out of convenience, but he chose to keep at it because there was something about her that appealed to him. Put simply, I knew that George would appreciate Bea to the extent that she clearly deserved because he already did.

I thought back to that day in the common room, right after she'd dumped Devereux, when she asked me if I thought there might be something wrong with her because she'd never been in love, because she kept making choices that she knew would end poorly. I thought about how her eyes had been big and bright and her voice had been so soft and unsure, so very un-Bea that I'd felt off balance, like the stars had reversed themselves and the sun and moon had swapped places.

I thought about how George had come by, how her smile had reached her eyes when he gave her that coin. I thought about how they'd both come back from their broom race, red cheeked and laughing, how they'd captivated the common room as they reenacted their race.

I thought about how if you didn't know about what had happened earlier, you'd never have guessed that Bea had been upset.

These images became my motivation. I wasn't exactly experienced in this area and my track record as far as making romantic relationships come to fruition was rather poor, but I couldn't just sit and do nothing.

So for the week following that particular revelation, I monitored our conversations with bated breath, waiting for the perfect opportunity to make a casual, completely non-suspicious inquiry.

My moment finally came on a Thursday evening. Dinner had long since ended, but we were still sitting at the table, neither one of us particularly keen on returning to the common room to start on homework. I spotted my opening as Bea was recounting the latest drama with Rochelle DiLaurentis and Oliver Esposito, who'd been on the verge of splitting up for several weeks now.

"I'm not even involved in that relationship and  _I'm_  exhausted," she said, shaking her head. "I'd almost like to tell them to get on with it, you know?"

"Somehow, I don't think that would be very well received," I said.

"Good advice sometimes isn't." She sighed. "Is it just me, or has there been a glut of breakups lately? Last week there was that whole thing with Otis Warren cheating on Nadia Minkowkski with Patricia Stimpson, Rochelle and Oliver are almost quits, Jenny Jacobs and Keegan Giffords split yesterday."

"I suppose that's more than usual."

"It's a bit depressing." She made a face. "Isn't spring meant to be the time people fall in love or some such nonsense? I think it'd be nicer if there was a glut of secret admirers or something."

This was it. There was no better time.

"Funny you should say that," I said, trying to keep my voice even and neutral. I'd gotten better about keeping secrets from Bea, but this was the first time I'd kept a secret that directly concerned her and the stakes felt higher. "I heard an interesting thing about George the other day."

Bea looked intrigued. " _Really_."

"Fred reckons that he fancies someone, but he's had a rather difficult time sussing out who and George won't tell him." I sighed and rolled my eyes. "Apparently withholding secrets and being insufferable about it is a trait they share."

"I'm not surprised." She drummed her fingers on the table, looking deep in thought. "That is interesting though."

"Why, has he said anything to you about it?" I asked, though I suspected the answer was no.

Bea snorted. "No. I don't know why you think he would."

"I dunno, you're friends." I sighed again. "And frankly, I'm rather tired of listening to Fred speculate about it, so I'll take any information I can get to put an end to it."

"We're friends, but that doesn't mean he's sharing secrets like that with me." Her lips curled into a smirk. "Besides, I think he knows that if he told me that sort of thing, I'd mostly give him shit about it."

I raised an eyebrow. "Well, with that sort of support, it's a wonder he hasn't said anything to you about it."

"Oh, he's fine, nothing fazes him," said Bea, waving me off. "Besides, you can't really blame me. I have so very few opportunities to genuinely tease him—he's usually twenty steps ahead of me." She paused, seeming to think for a moment. "If I  _had_  to guess, though, I think it would probably be Alicia."

I barely resisted the urge to groan and bury my face in my palms. It wasn't Alicia. Anyone with eyes could see that. Even before Fred had pointed all of this out to me, I would have guessed that George fancied Bea before I would have guessed that he fancied Alicia simply based on the amount of time they spent together.

I couldn't show any of this, though, so instead, I frowned like this was a curious theory that I'd never considered before. "Hmm. What makes you say that?"

Bea shrugged. "I dunno, he always seems pleased to see her, he goes out of his way to make her laugh. I think he might've taken her to the Yule Ball as well."

"Well…I dunno, maybe. I guess I haven't had that particular impression," I said vaguely.

"Well, that's my best guess." She paused for a moment and made a face. "I suppose I'm not allowed to say anything to him about this."

"No, you can't breathe a word. I mean it. Technically, I'm not even supposed to know. And Fred told me not to tell you because he thought you'd probably say something to George and then George would know that Fred told me  _and_  that I told you and it would just be a mess." I gave her my most serious and earnest look. "So please keep that quiet. Really, Bea, Fred would genuinely be upset with me."

I'd lost track of the lies that I'd told in this conversation, but I felt less bad about them than I normally did—it was in service of helping a good thing happen to Bea. That wasn't as bad as telling a lie in order to have a good thing happen to me, right?

Bea sighed. "Yes, I'll keep my mouth shut. But know that I'm making a tremendous sacrifice in doing so. That would have got me several weeks of teasing at the very least."

I shrugged. "Well, you never know: he may end up telling you about it anyway."

It's remarkable, really, that I managed to say this with a straight face.

* * *

"I was right: she has absolutely no idea."

I'd dragged Fred out to the alcove in the Fat Lady's corridor as soon as I'd found him in the common room that evening.

Fred sighed. "I have to say, Lewis: this is a little disappointing. You don't typically drag me out here to talk about my brother." He wiggled his eyebrows, as though I could have missed any of that subtext.

"I needed to speak with you privately," I said, poking him in the chest. "And really, if you can't manage more than one dastardly plan at a time, I'll find a different co-conspirator."

There was a sound of footsteps in the corridor. Fred glanced out at the corridor before taking a step closer toward me, placing his palm flat on the wall behind me, like we were having some sort of intimate chat.

"You wouldn't," he said quietly, giving me a smug sort of grin. "I'm too much fun."

I sighed. "Do you want to hear what Bea said or not?"

"I'm listening."

"Her direct quote: 'if I had to guess, I think it would be Alicia.'"

Fred made a face. "Where did she get  _that_  idea?"

"Honestly, I don't know. She said something about how he always seems glad to see her, that sort of thing."

"I mean, don't get me wrong: Alicia's lovely." Fred raised an eyebrow. "But he's not been following her around like a puppy for the last few months."

"Right. I'm not the one you need to convince, though." I blew out an irritated breath. "Though this is surprisingly dense of her. She's usually quite perceptive when it comes to this sort of thing."

Fred paused for a moment, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. "Well, this is unexpectedly baffling. What should our next steps be then? Lock them in a broom closet for a few hours, see what happens?"

I put my hands on my hips and gave him a stern look. "Are you really proposing the Seven Minutes in Heaven solution?"

He frowned. "What's Seven Minutes in Heaven?"

"It's a Muggle party game, of a sort." I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the wall, propping one foot up behind me. "It's almost exactly what it sounds like: you draw lots and go into a closet for seven minutes with someone. It's mostly just an excuse for people to kiss each other."

He looked rather awestruck. "That's absolute genius. All these years and my dad was actually right: Muggles are  _far_  more brilliant that we give them credit for."

I raised an eyebrow. "You're really equating an excuse to fumble around in a dark room with great works of genius?"

"You're really implying it's not?" He smirked and his hands found their way to my sides, tickling my stomach. "I have it on good authority that you're particularly fond of snogging in darkened rooms, Miss Lewis."

"That's it, I'm finding a new co-conspirator," I said, trying unsuccessfully to wiggle away from him. "One who comes up with better plans than Seven Minutes in Heaven."

"What? You don't think that would work?" He'd stopped tickling me and his hands had settled on my waist.

"Maybe…it's just a bit dodgy," I said, absently straightening the collar of his shirt. "I think they both deserve something better."

"Fair enough." He exhaled, his brow furrowing. "How to engineer that without either one of them suspecting is another matter entirely…" His gaze strayed to my lips and his eyes glinted with a familiar sort of mischief. "But since you and I are in this corridor…"

"You are utterly incorrigible, do you know that?"

"You've mentioned." He grinned. "But I tend to do my best thinking when my mind isn't quite so occupied and it's been a rather long day."

We were close enough now that it was getting difficult for my mind to wrap around anything other than kissing him.

And he was right: it had been a long day.

I sighed. "Oh, go on then."

I mentioned earlier that this incident with Bea should have been proof to me that I didn't have as good of a handle on things as I thought. And while the fact that I was so wrapped up in my own problems was concerning in its own right, if I'd really been paying attention—if I truly had a handle on things, one more thing ought to have occurred to me.

If I had missed this thing with Bea—something that was so glaringly obvious it was almost comical—was it possible that I was missing something else?

Of course I was. You know this by now. But I didn't think to ask that question as Fred's lips met mine, as my hands tangled in his hair, as his hands gripped my hips. And I wouldn't think to ask that question until after the fire had caught and there was nothing to do but step back and watch it all burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …let's just say I'm particularly interested in your feedback for this chapter. :)
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! I'm hoping to have the next installment posted by the end of November 2018 at the very latest.


	17. Tangled

 

I have a bad habit of forgetting my own birthday.

This is partly because of my family. The Lewises are far more invested in Christmas, which is always an elaborate affair that Dad would happily stretch from Thanksgiving to Valentine's Day if Mum would let him. Birthdays are much more subdued—we'll have cake and presents, but nothing elaborate or extravagant.

At Hogwarts, there was the added complication of timing. My birthday always fell during the most chaotic and academically challenging time of the year. Final exams were no longer an idea that was tucked away safely in the distant future, but a looming presence that consumed most of my waking thoughts (to say nothing of the homework that I had in addition to final exams). I had no shortage of schoolwork and studying to keep me occupied; the fact that I'd aged another year shrank to something almost inconsequential.

My seventeenth birthday was poised to be particularly forgettable simply owing to the fact that I had a lot more going on in my life than usual: two dastardly plans (one of which involved a fake relationship), homework, studying for exams, prefect responsibilities—there was a lot. And as luck would have it, complications with all of those things happened to converge on the week leading up to my birthday.

The Friday before my birthday saw me grappling with the growing realization that solving the riddle of Bea and George was a lot more complicated than I had originally anticipated, largely owing to the fact that I was tangled up in a web of things I could not say. You might think that I'd be used to that, given the fact that I'd essentially been living a lie since December, but the situation with Bea and George felt decidedly different. Much of my fake relationship with Fred was out of my control—its success largely depended on the actions and reactions of other people. We had rolled a ball at a set of bowling pins: now we had to wait and see where the pins would fall.

In contrast, the situation with Bea and George had a clear solution: either George needed to talk to Bea or someone else needed to give Bea a nudge in the right direction. Both of these things were within my power to bring about: I could tell George to talk to Bea and if he didn't, I could nudge her in the right direction. It was quite simple.

Unfortunately, this simple solution had one rather significant obstacle and his name was Fred Weasley.

After a few weeks of absolutely no progress at all, the Charms lesson is what finally did it for me. I spent most of that lesson watching George practice charms of the non-magical variety on Bea, who reacted to the whole thing with the sort of eye-rolling, sarcastic sort of patience she'd perfected over the last several months, further confirming my suspicion that she had no idea that George was flirting with her.

It was utterly sweet and completely maddening.

As soon as the bell rang, my hand closed around Fred's wrist. "I need to speak with you. Privately."

He wiggled his eyebrows at me. "Privately, eh?"

I rolled my eyes and released his wrist as I began collecting my things. "I'm going to ignore that."

He responded with an exaggerated and swoony sort of look. "No, I imagine you'll go all weak-kneed if you think about it for terribly long. I'm quite dreamy, you know."

I picked up his textbook from his desk and shoved it into his arms. "I'm ignoring it because I'd rather not go on trial for murder and I almost certainly will because I don't have time to put together a proper alibi." I tugged at the sleeve of his jumper. "Come on, let's go."

He sighed. "Have you learned nothing from me? Always have an alibi and an exit strategy."

"Fred, I do not have time to argue with you about my planning failures in your hypothetical murder, which is becoming less hypothetical by the second."

He grinned at me as he shouldered his book bag. "All right, Lewis, settle down, I'm coming…"

We ended up in an empty classroom not terribly far from Charms and near enough to Defense Against the Dark Arts that I wasn't worried about being tardy.

"You  _have_  to let me talk to him," I said as soon as the door shut behind us.

Fred sighed and leaned against one of the desks, his arms crossed over his stomach. "Lewis."

"You cannot possibly tell me that this is the best way to go about things." I was standing in front of him, my hands fisted on my hips. "That was nearly ninety minutes of flirting that went completely over Bea's head. It would be pathetic if it weren't so bloody adorable. You  _have_  to let me say something to him."

"You made me a promise," said Fred, raising his eyebrows.

"Yes, I know, which is why I'm talking to you about it instead of just blazing ahead on my own."

"Charlotte—"

"He wouldn't have to know that you were the one who confirmed it for me," I said. "I could have easily worked it out on my own.  _Especially_  after class today."

"Honestly, knowing George, he'd be most likely to ignore whatever you tell him to do as a matter of principle," said Fred with a shrug that felt entirely too nonchalant for the seriousness of this issue.

"What are you talking about? This isn't a matter of principle."

Fred gave me a wry grin. "I don't know if you've noticed, but neither one of us is particularly fond of being told what to do.  _That's_  why it's a matter of principle."

"I wouldn't be  _telling_  him what to do," I huffed. "I'd simply  _suggest_  that he have a chat with Bea. There's a difference between giving advice and giving a directive."

He didn't bother trying to hide his smile. "You're typically more forceful on matters that you feel strongly about."

"It's called leadership, Weasley." I poked him in the chest with my forefinger. "It's why I made prefect."

He frowned. "You sure it wasn't your fanatical devotion to the rules?"

I pursed my lips, eyes narrowing. "You're being difficult on purpose and I refuse to take the bait."

His face broke out into wide grin. "Oh, settle down, Lewis, we'll sort it out. You focus on Bea and I'll speak with George. It'll seem less suspicious coming from me anyway."

I sighed. "And what exactly am I supposed to say to Bea without being completely obvious? Every possible version of 'oh, George seems rather friendly, wonder what that's about,' is utterly transparent and since you've insisted I can't be obvious, that leaves me with very little to work with."

"You're a clever girl, I'm sure you'll think of something."

I gave him a stern look. "You're supposed to be my co-conspirator in this dastardly plan, you know, not an unhelpful lump."

He shrugged. "I said I'd speak to George, didn't I? That's half the work right there. Besides, you've got plenty to work with. All you need to do is find a way to subtly direct her to the topic without letting her know that you're doing it."

I stared at him for a moment. "So what you're suggesting is that I make a series of very subtle hints until Bea brings up the topic on her own—despite the fact that she has shown absolutely no indication that she's even aware of said topic—and then nudge her in the right direction, all without actually saying anything directly."

"Exactly."

My lips pressed into a thin line. "I was wrong: you've actually given me less than nothing to work with."

"I'm not fond of your tone, you know," he said, tapping my nose. I scowled at him and he grinned. "Oh, don't make that horrible face at me. I'll speak with him this weekend."

I crossed my arms. "I'm giving you until Monday."

Fred smirked. "Or what?"

"I'll go rogue and you won't like it."

He raised an eyebrow. "I dunno, Lewis, you and the words 'going rogue' aren't typically things I'd associate with one another."

"Try me."

He tapped a finger against his lips. "It's tempting, I admit. But I'm also fairly certain George wouldn't forgive me."

"By Monday, then."

"By Monday." He checked his watch. "Class starts in two minutes, you know."

He laughed as I sighed and pulled him by the hand out of the classroom.

* * *

Since Fred was going to speak with George, I thought I'd at least try speaking to Bea. It took me nearly a full day to work out what exactly I was going to say, but eventually I managed to come up with something that I thought wouldn't immediately raise her suspicions.

"Can I ask you something?"

It was Sunday afternoon and one of the first really beautiful days we'd had—warm enough that you could believe that summer actually was around the corner. Bea and I had taken our homework outside and had camped out on a soft patch of grass not too far from the greenhouses.

"Sure," said Bea, not looking up from her Potions notes.

"Are you really serious about your moratorium on relationships?"

She looked up from her notes, frowning slightly. "Why do you ask?"

My heartbeat kicked up a notch. I'd need to be careful. "I'd just…I was thinking about it the other day and I realized this is probably the longest you've gone without having a boyfriend since…I dunno, a while."

The corner of her mouth twitched like she might be hiding a smile. "Did you think I wasn't serious?"

"No, it's not that." I paused, pursing my lips as I tried to choose my next words carefully. "When you and Ralph split up, you were devastated, to the point that teachers noticed."

Bea frowned. "Who?"

"Lupin. McGonagall asked me to look after you as well."

"Really? You never told me that."

I shrugged. "It wasn't a secret or anything—I just thought it was one of those things that wouldn't help if I brought it up at the time."

"Probably not." She leaned back on her elbows. "So, I was a rather spectacular disaster. Please continue."

"I don't mean it like that," I said, flicking a piece of grass at her. "What I mean is that you were completely gutted and people were worried about you. A month and a half later, you're seeing Caleb Flores and it's like Ralph never happened. You weren't nearly as upset about Devereux, but you made a much more extreme post relationship pledge. There was a part of me that wondered if it would take."

Bea nodded. "That's fair." She sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. "I mean—you're right, my pattern has been to have a relationship end, mope about it for a bit, and then leap into whatever comes my way." She twisted a curl around her forefinger. "And I don't like admitting it, but I tend to be rather hyperbolic and dramatic in the aftermath of that wreckage."

"Well." I struggled to hold back a smile. "I wasn't going to say it."

Bea grinned and nudged her foot against mine. "I know. That's one of the reasons why I love you." She took a deep breath, her expression turning slightly more serious. "But I dunno, with Devereux…it was just…it was different."

"How?"

Her smile had faded entirely. "I suppose…the short version is that it brought forward some rather uncomfortable truths. You and I talked about that a bit, right after I dumped him." She pressed her lips together, her eyes focusing on something far off in the distance. "I've thought about it a lot more since then. Devereux was sort of this awful caricature of all the boys I've dated before: objectively not good for me in clear and identifiable ways. And I knew that before I started dating him—it's not like it was a secret. But I went ahead with it anyway."

She was quiet for a moment. A breeze ruffled through my hair, bringing with it the smell of cherry blossoms and freshly mown grass.

"When I asked myself why—why did I go ahead with it when I knew it would be like this—I found I didn't really have a good answer," continued Bea softly. "Even now, three months later, I still don't know. And that just…it strikes me as the sort of thing that I ought to have a good answer for."

She plucked a clover flower from the grass, twisting it between her fingers. "Why am I throwing myself into things that I know will fail? Why am I making the same mistake over and over again?" She made a loop with the stem of the clover flower, her fingers combing the grass for another bloom.

"And I dunno…it just…the more I thought about it, the more I felt like I didn't really know myself at all. That maybe I don't even particularly like myself all that much." She looped a second clover flower through the first in a sort of daisy chain. "And…I think those are things I need to work out before I can try again."

A lump had been steadily forming in my throat as she spoke. Bea was scrappiness and feistiness personified: she blazed ahead, unafraid. If she made the same mistakes over and over again, it was for the purpose of developing calluses over her weaknesses so she couldn't be hurt the same way twice. Quiet introspection wasn't necessarily her thing—and while I was of the general opinion that quiet introspection was generally the preferable way to go about things, I couldn't help but worry that Bea was only coming around to it in this instance because she'd lost some of her fight.

"I just…I mean, it makes sense." I took a deep breath. "I suppose—it just makes me sad that you feel like that."

Bea set down her clover chain and reached over to squeeze my shoulder. "You're a good friend, Charlotte." She exhaled slowly, dropping her hand. "But it's not so bad, you know, being single. Or personal growth, for that matter. I think this is going to be a good thing for me."

My focus returned. George. Right. I needed to choose my next words carefully. "So, you're committed to this, then?"

"Completely."

"So even if you were to meet a boy who was absolutely lovely and utterly perfect for you, you'd tell him to come back later?"

Bea laughed, quirking an eyebrow. "Why, have you got someone specific in mind?"

"No, I was just curious."

I tried not to think about how easy it was for me to lie now.

Bea shrugged, picking up her clover chain again and adding another loop. "I dunno, that seems like one of those hypotheticals that's too impossible to spend much time considering, you know?"

I resisted the urge to push back on this assertion—barely. "What makes you say that?"

"Oh, it's complicated." She sighed and added another flower to her chain. "I suppose Devereux didn't leave me feeling particularly optimistic about any potential future romance."

I couldn't quite hide my reaction to that. "Bea, Devereux was an idiot. Please don't give an idiot that much power over your life and future happiness."

She smiled and nudged my foot with hers. "Oh, don't fret. I'm not giving him that much power over me." She twirled the clover chain around her finger. "It's more that I've decided I'm not going to make the same mistakes again. No more Devereuxes. No more Ralphs or Calebs." She made a face. "Thing is, I've never really taken pains to avoid that sort and now I'm not exactly sure who I should be looking for. I'm more…hesitant, I suppose, than I was before."

"Put me in charge of screening any potential boyfriends," I suggested, not entirely joking. "I am extremely picky and possess borderline impossible standards. I would be excellent at this."

Bea laughed and flicked the chain of clover flowers at me. She seemed—at last—a little more like herself. "This is revenge for me insisting on being your social secretary, isn't it?"

"It might be a little of that." I hesitated for just a moment. "But in all seriousness: I can help if you need me to."

"I know," she said with a small smile. "And I'll keep it in mind. But I do think I need to do a bit of thinking before I do anything else. Spend some time alone and such."

"Well…" I was trying to ignore the truth that was clawing at the inside of my throat. "Just…I dunno…don't—don't give up."

She gave me a curious sort of sidelong glance, like she didn't know what to make of that sentiment. "I won't. Don't worry."

I had edged too close to the truth. I found myself hoping that she would ask more so that I could tell her—I would have to tell her. Fred would have to like it or lump it.

But she didn't ask. Instead, she took a deep breath and turned back to her notes, leaving me feeling like I'd accomplished very little—if anything at all.

* * *

Fred had nothing for me on Monday.

I thought he did, initially. He'd caught me by the wrist as I left the Great Hall after breakfast and told me that he needed to speak with me privately later and could we go sit out on the grounds during our free period? Naturally, I concluded that he must have some sort of sensitive information regarding Bea and George and he couldn't risk them overhearing.

This proved to be wistful thinking on my part.

"So…what did he say?"

We'd settled down on a bit of grass under the shade of a magnolia tree, not far from the lake, Fred with his back leaning against the trunk of the tree and me sitting next to him.

He frowned. "What did who say?"

"George. About Bea." I gave him a stern look. "You promised me you were going to speak with him over the weekend."

"Oh, right." He shrugged like I hadn't spent the better part of my weekend waiting for this information. "He wasn't particularly forthcoming, as I suspected."

In that moment, I couldn't decide whether I was more exasperated with Fred or George. George was unhelpful and committed to a strategy that seemed specifically designed to frustrate me; that said, George didn't know that he was being exasperating. Fred most certainly did. Fred was the architect of my silence on the matter and Fred seemed to lack the appropriate level of concern for my frustration.

I don't know why I bothered with this thought experiment: of course I was more frustrated with Fred.

"I should note that I only promised to speak to him by Monday," said Fred, as though he knew that my thought experiment was not going in his favor. "I never promised any results by Monday."

"So you violated the spirit, but not the letter of the agreement." My eyebrow arched. "Forgive me if I'm not impressed, He Who Keeps Trying to Argue Semantics."

"I'm not a miracle worker," he said, nudging me with his elbow. "These things take time."

I barely held back a sigh. "So if you've nothing to report on that, why are we here?"

"Right." He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking less at ease with himself. I felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe I'd been a little harsh.

"This is…rather stupid." He swallowed. "Heard an 'I love you' between Lee and Angelina…" He trailed off, looking a bit uncomfortable. "I dunno…it put me more out of sorts than I expected."

My irritation with him disappeared entirely. This certainly wasn't the first time we'd had a serious conversation, but this was the first time I'd seen him display this particular sort of vulnerability—and one that he wasn't necessarily comfortable sharing. It was perhaps one of the first times he'd asked me for help, albeit indirectly.

"Oh, Fred," I said quietly, putting my hand on his shoulder.

He gave me a look. "You're not going soft on me, are you, Lewis?"

I rolled my eyes and scooted over so I sat closer to him. "You complain when I'm not nice to you. You complain when I'm nice to you. Make up your mind, Weasley."

A reluctant smile tugged at his lips and he draped an arm around my shoulders. "You may have a point."

I leaned my head against his shoulder and we were quiet for a while, listening to the sound of birds chirping and the wind rustling the leaves.

"Did you want to talk about it, or did you just need someone to silently commiserate?" I asked after a moment.

"Bit of both, I think." He exhaled slowly. "I didn't expect to be bothered by it, is all."

"Fred, I know this is going to come as a shock, but you are an actual human being with actual human feelings, not just an agent of chaos."

"Seems like an oversight."

"I'm serious." I lifted my head to look at him. "I know what this feels like. It's bloody awful. Why wouldn't you be bothered?"

"Because I decided I wouldn't be."

I raised an eyebrow. "That's not how emotions work, Fred. Very few things work that way, in fact."

"Again, that seems like an oversight." He looked at me and sighed softly. "But you might be right."

"Do you know what I think?" I said, settling against him again. "I think you're bothered by it largely because you've been trying to avoid it."

"How d'you mean?"

"You told me that your way of coping with it is just not thinking about it. Or you've got your whole 'relationships at this age don't last' explanation that you gave me when I was upset about Aidan and Genevieve. Thing is…that sort of thing always catches up with you and then you have to look it in the eyes and it seems even worse than when you started avoiding it."

I risked a glance at him. He was staring at some point in the distance, eyebrows pulled into a slight frown.

"And I think…" I hesitated, unsure how I wanted to proceed. If I  _should_  proceed, even. "…I think the idea of not being able to laugh at your own sadness makes you a bit uncomfortable. And I imagine this is a situation that feels especially unfunny."

He didn't say anything for a moment and I thought that perhaps I'd gone too far, that I'd said something hurtful, that I'd made things worse. But then his arm tightened round my shoulders and my heart suddenly felt a bit lighter.

"Thanks," he said.

"Of course."

It was a few minutes before either one of us spoke.

"Can I ask you something?" said Fred after a while. "Do you honestly think any of this plan is working?"

I shrugged. "It's hard to say. Sometimes I think it might be. Other times…" I swallowed. There was another truth poised on my lips. "Other times…I wonder why we're still doing this, you know? Not that it's bad or anything, but…" I trailed off. "I dunno. Sometimes it feels like we've just committed ourselves to futility for no particular reason."

Another long, silent moment passed between us.

"I think," said Fred after a while, "when it comes down to it, we're both a little afraid of being alone."

It was something that I'd often wondered, but hadn't had the courage to speak aloud.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I think you're right."

* * *

I didn't want to dwell on the conversation that Fred and I'd had beneath the magnolia tree, so I didn't think about it.

Fred had laid bare a truth that I knew was important, a truth that I knew demanded more thought from me. But it was also the sort of truth that made me feel a little queasy, like I was about to open some sort of Pandora's box of all my insecurities and weaknesses. And despite the fact that I had literally just told Fred that avoiding things is a good way to ensure that those things catch up with you later in a far more unpleasant way, I decided that the best option was to not think about it, to put that box somewhere far in the depths of my mind where it could be safely forgotten.

Though honestly, with the way that my week was going, I didn't really have much time to think about it even if I wanted to.

I'd been spending more and more time in the library as final exams approached—which was translating to more and more time with Aidan. He was there at least as often as I was and it was a given that we'd end up at the same table. We didn't always talk—there was a lot of work to be done—but when we did, I managed not to embarrass myself.

It was fine, all things considered. In fact, it was fine enough that I started to feel a little more optimistic that things might work out.

It was nearing curfew on Tuesday evening. We'd stopped studying a little while ago and had been chatting quietly about nothing in particular. I felt pleasantly sleepy and oddly at peace with everything—I wasn't worrying about saying something wrong, I wasn't reading eight different meanings into our conversation, I was just enjoying the moment.

"Can I ask you something?" said Aidan.

He looked a little serious and for whatever reason, that made me feel a little nervous, like I ought to be expecting something awful. "Sure."

He cleared his throat. "So—erm. I suppose this is a rather awkward thing to bring up, but…well." The tips of his ears had gone rather pink, I noticed. "Genevieve told me about the—er—the conversation that you'd had a few months back."

I was holding my breath and my heart was pounding hard against my ribs. I knew what conversation he was referring to—the one where Genevieve had accidentally told me that he'd fancied me at one point—but I waited for him to clarify.

"The—er—well, when she let slip that I'd fancied you." He gave a short, nervous sort of laugh. "She's been feeling guilty about that for months and worrying herself sick that I'd be cross."

"That does sound like her," I said, my hands twisting in my lap.

He smiled fondly, his eyes softening as they often did when we talked about Genevieve. "Yeah…I wasn't cross, of course. It was an honest mistake and it's not like it—" There was that short, nervous laugh again. "—well…it's not like it's relevant right now."

I nodded, not entirely sure what to say.

"So…" Aidan seemed to hesitate, his fingers fiddling nervously with the cuffs of his sleeves. "…did you really not know?"

"No," I said quietly. "I didn't."

His laugh was still nervous, but there was a tinge of something like relief and disbelief. "Really? I'd thought it was fairly obvious…"

I shrugged. "No, I mean…it's entirely possible that I was just incredibly dense, but I didn't think that you were being anything other than friendly."

He laughed again, though that nervous quality was suddenly back. "Well. I suppose that's good to know."

I wasn't entirely sure what he meant by that and it made me uneasy in a way that I couldn't really understand. I took a deep breath, a question poised on my lips when the ten-minute warning bell sounded.

"Is it really that late?" Aidan looked at his watch. "Blimey. Lost track of time."

I blinked, that uneasy feeling suddenly gone. "Yeah. I should get going."

Aidan had begun gathering his things. 'You going to be here tomorrow as well?"

I nodded. "After dinner."

He smiled and my stomach dropped. "Well, I'll see you then."

"See you."

The common room was mostly empty when I returned just two minutes before the curfew bell. Some seventh years were sitting in the armchairs and studying and Fred, George, and Lee occupied one of the tables, talking quietly amongst themselves. Bea was nowhere to be found. I settled down in my usual spot on one of the couches, my Transfiguration textbook propped open in my lap.

I couldn't really focus.

The conversation with Aidan had left me feeling a mix of emotions. On the surface, it seemed good—we were both on the same page. It seemed like the potential for a relationship might still exist.

But…

There was also a part of the conversation that made my stomach drop in a rather unpleasant way, like I was standing on my tiptoes on the edge of a cliff. It wasn't like there were a bunch of alarm bells going off, but something about the way that he'd looked at me in the dim light of the library made me feel a little like there should be, even though I couldn't exactly pinpoint why.

"It's past curfew, Lewis." Fred was sitting down next to me.

"I'm studying."

"Do you always study by staring at the same page for ten minutes at a time?"

I kept my eyes on the book. "Depends on how well I'm understanding the material."

"You do realize that you're looking at the table of contents?"

I hadn't. I sighed and shut the book and shifted to what had become a rather familiar position: my back propped up against the arm of the couch, my legs draped over his lap, his hands folded on my knees.

"Something on your mind?" he asked.

"Sort of." I blew out a long breath. "It's…I dunno, I think it's good, but it feels…complicated."

"Well, that does sound very on the nose for you."

"I suppose." I took another deep breath and glanced around the common room. It was mostly empty, except for the seventh years—Lee and George must have gone up to the dormitory.

"I was in the library with Aidan tonight. It went…well, mostly." I worried my lower lip between my teeth for a moment. "Genevieve told him that she'd accidentally told me that he'd fancied me—she's been feeling guilty about that, evidently."

Fred raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? How'd that go?"

I shrugged. "I mean…he just asked if I really didn't know and I said that I didn't and then the warning bell rang."

"That seems like a good thing…" He studied my expression and smiled. "And yet in a classic Charlotte Lewis move, you look bothered by this good thing."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help smiling. "It is a good thing. It's good that we're on the same page, it's good that he knows that I didn't actually know. I'm happy about that part." I paused, worrying my lower lip again. "I suppose…I don't know. There's still a part of me that feels rather uneasy."

Fred gave a rather beleaguered sigh. "This isn't your whole am-I-the-villain-in-this-story nonsense, is it?"

I shot him a stern look. "It's not nonsense, it's a valid concern. But no, it's not that, not exactly." A minute ticked by. "I think…I think it's just…it seems rather odd to ask me about it, you know? Why now? It's not like either one of us is single."

"Wouldn't you want to know if you were in his position?"

I shrugged. "I mean, yes, but…I dunno, that's the sort of thing that I'd be more inclined to keep in my back pocket, you know?"

"You could ask him why he brought it up."

"I was going to, but the curfew bell rang, so it'll have to wait until tomorrow." I paused for a moment. "There's a part of me that's a little afraid of the answer."

"Why's that?"

"Because…" I struggled to find the right words. "This is going to sound mad because this was the entire bloody point of our dastardly plan but…I don't want to be the reason that they split up. I think I was naïve in expecting that if this plan worked, I wouldn't be culpable in some way." I picked at the cuticle on my left thumb. "And I suppose…I'm afraid that if I ask him about that, it will lead to something I didn't intend and something that I can't stop."

"I think asking is probably better than fretting about it," said Fred quietly. "Even if you don't like the results."

"No, I know. I'm going to ask him." I sighed. "I just…I don't feel great about it."

There was another thing that was bothering me: the memory of the smell of magnolia blooms and Fred saying that we were both a little afraid of being alone. Fred, peeling back and laying bare a truth that I wasn't necessarily ready to hear, one that I couldn't even begin to understand. Fred, with eyes that were a little sadder and more vulnerable than I'd ever seen before.

My stomach twisted.

There was a part of me that wanted to tell him all that. There's a part of me that wonders even now if my silence was the right decision—if saying something would have actually made a difference, or if that was merely wistful thinking. Maybe it would have only bought me a few more minutes before things came crashing down.

* * *

I slept poorly Tuesday night and Wednesday was just an endless stretch of fighting fatigue and trying not to think too much about meeting Aidan in the library after dinner.

When Aidan finally arrived at our usual table, it didn't feel entirely real. I went through the motions of studying and light conversations, my stomach twisting into knots all the while. I knew what I needed to ask, but I wasn't entirely sure what answer I would get—or even what answer I wanted—and that left me feeling rather unmoored and uncertain. I kept second guessing myself—did I really want to ask?—even though I knew that I had to, that I wouldn't feel right until I did.

Before I knew it, we were once again nearing the curfew bell.

I took a deep breath.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure," said Aidan.

I felt like I was making a choice that I wasn't going to understand until it was too late. My hands twisted together in my lap underneath the table.

"Why did you ask me about…well, about what Genevieve had told me?"

To my surprise, he gave sort of a light chuckle. "I suppose it seems rather pointless to ask you about it now." He paused for a half second, twirling his quill between his fingers. "I suppose…I just wanted to hear it from you. The whole thing had been rather…well, I'd been rather disappointed when you didn't seem interested…"

He trailed off and we looked at each other. I was balanced on tiptoe on the cliff's edge again, my heart pounding in my throat. I knew if I had looked at my hands in my lap at that moment, my knuckles would have been white.

I took a breath.

"If you had known…" His voice was much softer now, not quite a whisper, but almost. "…would you have been interested?"

My heart was flinging itself against my sternum. I found that I could only nod.

He gave me a slight smile. "Good to know."

There was a beat of silence that went for just a second too long. It was just a second, but it was a second that allowed his eyes to briefly flicker to my lips, a second that made me realize that if I didn't look away, he was going to kiss me.

And instead of feeling breathless or happy, I felt somewhat sick. I hadn't wanted it to be like  _this_. I had wanted us to arrive at this moment as single people. I had wanted him to pine for me and realize that he wanted me, but not to the point of cheating on his girlfriend. On Genevieve. Who I liked. Who was sort of a friend.

I'd heard her tell him she loved him. I'd heard him say it back. Was that a lie?

Would he ultimately do the same thing to me?

And the Aidan that I had fallen in like-or-love-or-whatever-you-want-to-call-it with, that Aidan wouldn't have even thought about doing something like this. That Aidan wouldn't be leaning incrementally closer to me while he had a girlfriend and I (as far as he knew) had a boyfriend.

Did I really know him like I thought I did? Suddenly, I wasn't sure. This was the first honest conversation I'd had with him and somehow it had turned into something false and strange.

This…this wasn't romantic. This wasn't what I wanted.

I looked away from him. "I should be going. It's getting late."

I heard him clear his throat. "Yeah."

I quickly gathered my things with shaking hands, avoiding Aidan's gaze and muttering a quick goodbye before I hurried out of the library. I felt sick. I felt a little like crying.

I wasn't really thinking about it consciously, but when I went into the common room and didn't find him, I realized that I was looking for Fred. It was like my internal compass had set him as my North Star whenever I was upset: he was the only one I could talk to about this. He was the only one who would understand.

I spotted George and Lee sitting by the fireplace and chatting.

"Have you seen Fred?" I asked, trying not to look like I was about to cry or panic or both.

"Think he went upstairs," said George. "D'you want me to get him?"

"No, it's fine, I'll just go up," I said quickly, ignoring the flicker of surprise in Lee's eyes and the brief flash of a smirk from George. "Thanks."

I took the stairs two at a time up to the boys' dormitory, trying not to think about the innuendo that George and Lee were likely speculating on or wondering who else in the common room had seen me running up there and what they thought I might be doing. I found the sixth years' dormitory and walked in without knocking, the door swinging shut behind me.

Fred was alone in the room, in his school trousers and button down, his tie and school sweater on the bed in front of him, like I'd interrupted him in the middle of changing into his pajamas. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew I should be embarrassed about this, but the more immediate problem with Aidan made it difficult for me to process any additional emotions.

He looked up at me, his expression initially surprised and then quickly settling into a sort of puzzled frown. "Hey. What's going on?"

Now that I was here, now that he was looking at me and expecting some sort of explanation for why I was here, I found that I didn't really know what to say. My mouth opened and closed rather uselessly.

Fred, in his strange and uncanny way, seemed to understand this. His eyes softened and he sat down on the bed and patted the space next to him. "Come on."

Mutely, I walked over to the bed and sat down. I could feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

"Do you mind if we shut the hangings?" I asked quietly. "I'd…I'd just rather that no one saw me like this."

For once, he didn't make a joke. He simply shut the curtains with a wave of his wand and cast a silencing charm. We sat in total darkness for a moment until he cast  _Lumos_  and sent a small globe of light up to the ceiling of the canopy. The bed shifted slightly as he moved to sit cross-legged in front of me, gently separating my hands—which I'd already been twisting together in my lap—and holding them in his own.

I didn't feel better—not exactly—but I felt safe. I felt like I could breathe.

"All right?" he asked, his eyebrows drawn together in a slight frown.

I let out a shaky laugh. "Oh…that's…that's a rather complicated question."

It was a while before I felt like talking—before I could find the words to explain what I was feeling, more accurately. I felt flummoxed by my own feelings, I felt naïve, stupid, selfish, and awful. Fred listened quietly as all this came out in a stream of consciousness monologue, his thumbs tracing gentle patterns on my knuckles.

"I just…" I swallowed. I'd been talking for a long time. "I'm not sure that I can just…look past what happened."

"Do you want to?" asked Fred.

I paused, worrying my lower lip between my teeth. "No," I said after a moment. "Even if…even if he split up with Genevieve and we got together…" I took a deep breath. "I think there'd always be a part of me that would be worried he'd be keeping an eye out for someone he might be missing because he was with me." I looked at him. "Is that stupid?"

"No. It's sensible," said Fred, squeezing my hands.

I took another deep breath, somewhat surprised by the tears that were welling up in my eyes. "I just…I'd thought I'd wasted my time before, when he took Genevieve to the Yule Ball…" I trailed off, shaking my head. "This…this feels a thousand times worse."

"I think you'll find you're hardly in the minority on having wasted time on a relationship that didn't turn out how you'd hoped."

I gave a short and bitter laugh. "I think relationship is a bit of a generous term. It was a crush that turned out to not be what I'd hoped." I took a deep breath and shut my eyes, and was rather surprised when a tear rolled down my cheek.

"Charlotte." Fred's voice was gentle. He dropped one of my hands and I felt his thumb brush away the tear. "He's an idiot."

I opened my eyes as he dropped his hand from my face. "I know." I blinked again and two more tears rolled down my cheeks. When did I become so terrible at holding back my emotions? "I just…"

I trailed off, my shoulders slumping slightly. I was feeling all too much at once—sad and angry and despite everything that had happened with Aidan, desperately lonely and unwanted. It was a broken and overwhelming sort of feeling.

I looked at Fred. "I don't even know what to do next, honestly. We've concocted this whole fake relationship for a particular purpose and now…" I shrugged. "Now I'm not sure what to do, at least from my end of things. There's still the matter of Angelina and Lee, of course…"

I trailed off again, swallowing that same truth that we'd discussed under the magnolia tree: that after everything, I was afraid of being alone again, even if the alternative was fake. That frankly, after what had happened with Aidan, the thought of ending our fake relationship the same night made me profoundly sad in a way I couldn't quite articulate.

"We don't have to keep doing this if you don't want to," said Fred gently.

I shook my head. "No, that's not what I meant. I'm fine to keep on with it, it's not like I've got anyone lined up waiting." I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. "I suppose I'm just…I dunno. It's a lot right now and I'm just…feeling a lot of different things, to put it mildly."

I looked at him for a long moment, my heart squeezed up into my throat, a familiar kind of recklessness stirring in my bones.

"What will help?" he asked quietly.

I swallowed. "Do you…would you mind kissing me for a bit so I can stop feeling miserable for a little while?"

The smirk that he gave me was smug and familiar and infuriating, and also oddly comforting because everything else felt so wrong and confused.

"Shut up," I said, giving him the sternest look I could muster.

"Technically, I didn't say anything."

"One, what have I told you about arguing semantics? Two, consider it a preemptive strike. At some point in the near future, you're bound to say something that warrants that reaction."

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted me to kiss you? If my understanding is correct, that doesn't involve much talking."

"And yet, here we are."

"Fair point."

He allowed himself one more smirk before he reached forward, his hand cupping the nape of my neck, his lips gently grazing mine.

It started out like any other kiss: soft and sweet, rather deliciously slow. The tension in my neck and shoulders began to ease and my feelings began to retreat to a dull roar as my mind became more and more preoccupied with kissing.

The beds at Hogwarts are twin-sized and rather narrow—either for economy of space or as a way to attempt to prevent what is probably going to happen anyway. In either event, if they were intended to encourage single occupancy, what they really did was make it necessary to cuddle up really close with whoever you're with. I'm not sure which one of us started it—it might have been me—but after a few minutes of this, I was lying back on the bed and Fred was rolling on top of me, partly because that was the only way that there was room for the two of us.

This position produced an entirely different set of sensations than what I was accustomed to. I found that I rather liked the weight of his body on top of mine—he was warm, solid, and safe in a way that made me want to pull him closer. I like how his leg nudged between my knees, how our hips aligned, how I had all of those things in addition to the already enjoyable parts of kissing.

If it sounds like this should have been setting off alarm bells in my head, well, you're not wrong.

He kissed along my jawline to nip at my earlobe. This is what undid me a little. It had always been an intense, toe curling sensation, but with the weight of him on top of me and the dim light, I felt a pleasant sort of tension flare low in my hips and a wild sort of recklessness stir somewhere in my mind.

He did it again and fire surged through me.

I arched against him and his mouth was again covering mine. My hands crept under the hem of his shirt, my palms sliding up the curve of his back, his skin warm and firm against my hands. On impulse, I lightly dragged my fingernails down the column of his spine and he shuddered in my arms before pressing harder against me, his hips rolling against mine as he kissed me fiercely.

I was made of fire and hunger and want and need and it was just enough to keep sadness from consuming me.

I was pulling off my school sweater and his hands soon found the knot on my tie and the top three buttons on my blouse. He pushed the collar of my shirt aside and pressed his mouth against that spot on my collarbone that made my breathing hitch and the world tilt slightly on its axis. His hands slipped under the hem of my shirt, pressing flat against my lower back as I arched against him, sliding higher still until his fingertips grazed the band of my bra.

Maybe it was the feeling of cool air on his skin that knocked him back into himself, but when I'd undone the first few buttons on his school shirt, he pulled away from me.

"Charlotte." He caught my hands in his. "We need to stop."

"Why?"

"You're upset."

I gave a sharp and bitter sort of laugh. "Yes, what gave it away?"

"You tend to get rather impulsive when you're upset," he said quietly.

I was frustrated. "So? That hasn't stopped you before. We've kissed loads of times when I've been upset."

His voice was gentle. "Yes, but we've never been alone in my bed when you've been upset and I don't want you to do something that you'll regret. And judging by the number of buttons that have come undone, I'd say that we're heading in that direction."

He was right. That realization abruptly stamped out the flames that had been licking at my skin. Sadness reared its head and suddenly I was painfully—shamefully—aware of how far I'd pushed that line in the name of feeling something other than grief, how foolish and stupid and reckless I'd been in the hope of having a moment's peace. Now I felt worse than I had previously—not only was I grieving what had happened with Aidan, but I was furious and ashamed of myself.

"Hey, it's all right." Fred's arms were wrapping around me and I realized that I was crying.

"I'm sorry," I choked out.

"You're fine, you don't need to be sorry."

I don't know what it was exactly, but something broke inside me in that moment and my shoulders shook with large, heaving sobs. Fred shifted so that I was cradled against his chest, and gently rubbed my back while I cried.

I didn't really know why I was crying so hard. It was partly about Aidan, partly because I was embarrassed but partly something else, something more complex that I wouldn't really understand until much later.

Finally, after what felt like hours, my sobs subsided.

"I'm so sorry," I said after a moment, my voice a whisper.

"You don't need to apologize."

I was quiet for a long moment. "Are you still going to speak to me?"

"Why wouldn't I?"

"I mean…" I shrugged. "I pushed things rather far." His chuckle rumbled low in my ear and my worry was instantly replaced with annoyance.

"Listen, Lewis, I'm seventeen and male. I'm happy to let you ravish me, I'd just rather you did it at a time when you weren't upset." He tugged a strand of my hair. "Besides, you wouldn't want such a euphoric, transcendent experience to be tarnished by any sort of sadness."

"There are not enough words in the English language to describe how much I hate you at this exact moment in time," I said.

"You and I both know that's a lie," he said.

We were both quiet for a long time. I listened to the steady sound of his heartbeat and my eyes started to slide shut.

"Hey." He shook me gently sometime later. "It's after midnight."

I stirred slightly, sitting up and disentangling myself from his arms, reaching for my sweater. "I should get back."

"Wait." He ducked his head out of the hangings as I pulled on my sweater. He returned a moment later, a small, gold wrapped box in his hands. "I know it's early yet, but since it's after midnight, it's now officially your birthday and I can give you your gift."

I looked at the box as he pressed it into my hands. I had completely forgotten.

"Oh, right. That's today, isn't it?"

Fred raised his eyebrows, his lips parting in an expression of disbelief. "Lewis. Did you forget your own birthday?"

"A little. It wouldn't be the first time." I turned the box over in my hands. "I've had a lot on my mind."

"Well, it's a good job, I'm here, then. You really would be lost without me."

I smiled at him. "Maybe a little. That's all I'm willing to admit."

He grinned. "Go on, open it. This is part one, by the way."

I carefully unwrapped the box and opened it. Inside, nestled on a fat puff of cotton, was a silver necklace with an oval pendant no bigger than my thumb. Etched onto the pendant in almost exquisite detail was a rather worried looking lion clutching an award that read "An Excellent Lion." A Latin inscription that was inscribed in fine script above it, along with the English translation:  _Daring but undeservedly anxious._

Something light and fluttering expanded in my chest and I think if I hadn't already cried myself out earlier that evening, I would have had a difficult time maintaining my composure.

"'I think you're overestimating what can reasonably be depicted on a crest,'" said Fred. "That is a direct quote from you, Charlotte Victoria Lewis, on the first of April of this year."

"This is wonderful," I said, taking the necklace out of the box to hold it up to the light. "How did you do this?"

"You'd be surprised what I can accomplish when I'm attempting to prove someone wrong," he said with a cheeky grin. "As you were in this case regarding crests. There's an inscription to that effect on the back."

I flipped the pendant over. Sure enough:  _I think you're overestimating what can reasonably be depicted on a crest_  was etched on the back, along with my name and the date.

"So did you do this because you genuinely thought I'd like it or because you wanted to prove that you were right?" I asked, clipping the chain around my neck.

"Bit of both." His eyes softened a bit. "And I reckoned it could be a good reminder for you, as you seem to be prone to a lot of undeserved anxiety."

I hugged him. "Thank you. This is wonderful."

"You're welcome." His eyes twinkled as he pulled away. "Ready for part two?"

"All right."

"So, I thought about this quite a bit," he said. "Staying out seventeen minutes past curfew is a fairly significant gift. How do I top that?" He paused, pressing his lips together, eyes sparkling. "So in that spirit: I'm going to give you seventeen days."

I raised an eyebrow. "Seventeen days of what?"

"As in: in the seventeen days leading up to final exams, I will be entirely well-behaved. No detentions, no bothering you in class. I will even do some studying with you without complaining about it."

I couldn't help the smile that was spreading across my face. "Really? You're sure you can handle that?"

"Can I handle it?" he scoffed. "Of course I can."

I smiled and reached over to squeeze his hands. "Thank you, Fred. This is an excellent birthday present."

"Anytime, love." He squeezed my hands back, his expression settling into something soft and a little gentle as I stifled a yawn. "But go get some sleep, hey?"

"All right." I pecked him briefly on the cheek. "Goodnight."

"Night."

I carefully parted the hangings. The room was—mercifully—dark and everyone else's hangings seemed to be shut. I crept out of the bed and tiptoed across the room, opening and shutting the door as quietly as possible before making my way to my own dormitory.

* * *

I made two mistakes that night. The first was deciding that I wasn't going to think more about what had transpired—what had almost happened—between Fred and me in the dim light of his bed. This was partly because I was too embarrassed, though the excuses that I made to myself were more philosophical: it was in the past, there wasn't anything I could do about it, it was a response to an extreme situation and I wouldn't let it happen again.

If I'd taken the time to think about it, I might have realized that there was more to it than being sad and lonely and unsupervised. I might have connected the dots sooner and that might have made a difference.

My second mistake was that several people had noticed when I'd entered and exited Fred's room.

In other words, I'd accidentally accelerated our fake relationship to the point where we had a fake sex life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter is called Tangled and boy, did it live up to its name. It was extremely difficult to write, which is why it's a few days later than I'd hoped.
> 
> I have an important question: let's say that hypothetically, I was considering writing a companion fic to Playing With Fire. Let's say that hypothetically, this fic centered on Bea and while it covered the same stretch of time, it was written to stand on its own and featured entirely new content (i.e. it wouldn't be a find/replace on Playing With Fire with some interstitial scenes). On a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being "ehhhh, keep that in your drafts folder" and 10 being "um, I needed this yesterday" how interested would you be in reading that?
> 
> I hope to have Chapter 18 posted by the end of 2018. There's a possibility that it might be a little late, owing to holiday craziness, but I will try my best. If I don't post before then—have a happy holiday season and a happy and healthy new year!


	18. Snagged

 

On the morning of my seventeenth birthday, I woke up with the sort of bone-tired, soul-weary exhaustion that only happens when you've been up late crying the night before.

For a few blissful moments, I was too groggy and sleepy to fully remember why I felt so miserable. But then my brain finished waking up and the last few hours of my sixteenth year played back with a painful clarity: Aidan talking to me in the library, Aidan about to kiss me, running up to Fred's room, my hands sliding under his shirt, Fred gently pulling away.

Shame blossomed in my chest and I rolled over in bed, burying my face in the pillow. What had happened with Fred—what had almost happened—was harder to think about in the light of day. It was the sort of embarrassing that you feel in a sharp and visceral way: a full body cringe, the kind that makes you wish for the earth to open up and swallow you whole. It was too much, too difficult to process.

In a way, what had happened with Aidan was easier to deal with. I could handle being sad, angry, and disappointed. Those feelings were straightforward. At most, the only thing I could be faulted for was wasting my own time, and even that was a mistake that had been made in good faith and based on the best information I had. I'd made the right decision by turning away from him; I had no regrets.

But I was not as blameless in what had happened in the semi-dark of Fred's bed. I had, in fact, made similar mistakes on various occasions in the past when I'd been upset. I should have known better—I  _did_  know better.

The problem was that I didn't understand my motivation for making those mistakes. I was clutching a Pandora's box of feelings to my chest and pretending I wasn't noticing that the hinges were starting to buckle or that my arms were starting to tremble from the effort of holding it shut. That incident was merely the first signs of my control starting to slip.

But I didn't know any of that on the morning of my seventeenth birthday. I didn't want to think about that incident any more than I had to. I didn't want to dwell on it because that would only make me feel worse. I would only make these realizations later with the clarity of hindsight, when it was a little too late.

Sighing, I fumbled on my bedside table for my alarm clock to check the time.

Breakfast had started five minutes ago. I had overslept.

Fifteen minutes later, I stumbled down to breakfast with damp hair and bleary eyes and the nagging feeling that I must have forgotten something important upstairs because I was not awake enough to be functioning properly. I slid into the empty seat across from Bea, slightly out of breath and my heart pounding hard in my chest.

"Why didn't you wake me?" I asked, reaching for the coffee.

"Sorry, I was running a bit late myself and I thought you'd already gone down," said Bea, sliding the sugar and cream across the table. "I was going to go back for you once I chugged some coffee and finished eating. Even made you a little takeaway package." She passed me a napkin filled with a few scones.

"Well, I appreciate the thought," I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

"Happy to do it. Happy birthday, by the way." She smiled at me and I noticed for the first time that her eyes were sparkling like she had a most excellent secret.

That couldn't mean anything good.

"So where were you last night?" she asked innocently.

Several things occurred to me all at once. One, I had neglected to exercise any discretion when I'd run up to Fred's room the night before. Two, Bea was grinning like an idiot and likely preparing to pepper me with a whole slew of questions that I was entirely unprepared to answer. Three, she probably found out about this from George, and four, I was now going to have kill George for not keeping his damn mouth shut.

I tried to keep my expression as neutral as possible as I finished pouring my coffee. "Well, you certainly waste no time."

"Life is short," said Bea with a shrug. "Someone has to ask the difficult questions and it may as well be me. So, let's hear the details."

I raised an eyebrow and carefully added a generous portion of cream to my coffee. "I'm not sure why you are asking me when you've clearly already decided on an answer."

"I have not, that's why I'm asking."

"Hmm…your mouth is saying that you haven't and yet your eyes say that you're seconds away from expounding on some theory you've dreamed up." I assessed her slightly too gleeful expression before helping myself to the sugar. "And probably a sordid theory at that."

"Well, forgive me for trying to observe the proper social protocol instead of just barreling ahead with my theories and assumptions," said Bea. She paused for a moment, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. "But yes, I might have noticed you were missing and I might have also heard about your whereabouts from a reliable source, so naturally I drew some conclusions."

I sighed heavily and helped myself to one of the scones that Bea had set aside for me. "I suppose I didn't  _expect_  George to keep his mouth shut, but I didn't want to rule out a miracle…"

"I never said it was George," said Bea primly.

I gave her a long and skeptical look as I spread some jam on my scone.

"Well, it might have been George," she conceded. "Though it  _could_ have been someone else. And I'm not actually admitting anything."

I raised an eyebrow and took a bite of my scone.

"That's not the point though," she said briskly, propping her chin up on her hands, her eyes sparkling with a look that was all too sly for this early in the morning. "I know where you were and who you were with. What were you doing?"

"Talking," I said through a mouthful of scone, though I had no illusions that this would be a sufficient answer for her.

It was Bea's turn to look skeptical. "Talking. Until after midnight. In your boyfriend's bed. Unsupervised."

When she put it like that, it didn't sound particularly convincing, but I was committed and I had no other explanation ready to go. "Yes."

"Must've been some  _fascinating_  conversation.  _Stimulating_  conversation." She wiggled her eyebrows, as if I'd miss the subtext otherwise.

"Oh for Godric's sake."

"Soooo…" said Bea, either not catching or completely ignoring the hint, "any particular  _milestones_  to close out your sixteenth year?"

"Not that this is in any way appropriate conversation for the breakfast table, but no, there were not," I said.

"Hmm." Bea stared at me for a long moment, her expression slowly transforming from calculating and thoughtful to something closer to a smirk. "But there  _were_ some related activities."

Had it been any other time, I might have been able to keep my expression completely neutral. But I was exhausted from yesterday, Bea wasn't entirely wrong, and the feeling of Fred's hands against the bare skin of my back was a memory that was still too fresh.

I didn't say anything, but I didn't need to: my burning cheeks were evidently enough confirmation for Bea.

"On a  _school night_!" Her jaw dropped, though she couldn't seem to help smiling. " _Charlotte_. You turn seventeen and it's like you're an entirely different woman."

"Oh, for— _nothing happened_!"

Bea raised an eyebrow. "I find that quite hard to believe."

"Try harder, then."

She frowned. "You're in a mood."

I sighed. "I woke up late, you're being horrible to me, and it's my birthday. I think my grievance is legitimate."

She snorted. "I'm not being horrible, you're exaggerating."

"What do you call causing a scene at the breakfast table?"

Bea rolled her eyes. "Oh, go on, this isn't anywhere close to causing a scene. And even if I were causing a scene, I'd be teaching you a valuable lesson. You're of age now. This is adulthood: everyone is horrible and disappointing, even when it's your birthday."

I narrowed my eyes at her as I took a sip of my coffee. "I'm going to remember this when you turn seventeen this summer."

Bea shrugged. "Worth it." She propped her chin up in her hands again. "Sooooo. Tell me everything."

I picked up another piece of the scone. "There is genuinely nothing to tell."

"Right. That's why you turned so red. Because there's absolutely nothing to tell."

I sighed. "Do you really think that if there was something to tell, I'd tell you about it at the breakfast table?"

The morning bell punctuated the end of my sentence. I was barely half-finished with breakfast. I shoved the rest of the scone into my mouth while Bea looked on, her fingers tapping impatiently against the table, as though it pained her to allow me to finish eating. Thirty seconds later, I chugged the rest of my coffee before standing and scrambling to pick up my bag.

"I drank that coffee too quickly, I'm going to be pinging off the walls," I said, as we left the Gryffindor table.

"If you hadn't been up late having sex, you wouldn't need the coffee," said Bea.

"I wasn't up late having sex!"

"Well, we're not at the breakfast table anymore, so you can tell me what it was you  _were_  doing," said Bea, wiggling her eyebrows.

"Again, the fact that we are in a public area would be a significant barrier to me disclosing anything to you, if I had anything to tell you in the first place."

Bea sighed dramatically. "Oh, go on, no one's listening."

"Eh, that's generally not a safe assumption to make," said a familiar voice. George had fallen into step beside Bea as we exited the Great Hall, evidently because some higher power felt that my morning wasn't irritating enough.

"Thank you, George, you have proven my point." My eyes narrowed. "Regrettably, it does not change the fact that you are now my arch nemesis."

George looked thoughtful. "Normally, I'd welcome the opportunity for a challenge, but I'm slightly unclear as to why I have earned that noble designation."

I gave him a stern look. "Really, George? You can't think of something you've done in the last twenty-four hours that might irritate me? Perhaps disclosing certain information to certain nosy parkers who are determined to discuss and dissect my private life at the breakfast table?"

"Never mind your petty feuds," interjected Bea. "George, I'm afraid it's as we feared: your rake of a brother has deflowered our darling Charlotte."

"Would you stop it?  _We didn't have sex!_ " I said, delivering a smack to Bea's shoulder and causing her to cackle triumphantly. " _This_  is what I've had to deal with all morning because you couldn't keep your mouth shut about something that didn't actually happen," I said to George.

"Two things. One: the hangings on Fred's bed  _were_ shut when I came in twenty minutes later," said George, raising an eyebrow. "Two: I was made certain promises regarding source confidentiality should I disclose certain information to certain nosy parkers. Said nosy parker clearly violated that contract, so perhaps you ought to consider directing your anger at her."

Bea rolled her eyes and sighed. "I said it  _might_  have been you, but I never said it  _was_  you. It  _could_  have been someone else. It's not my fault if Charlotte makes her own assumptions."

"That's a terrible argument," said George. "It's like you've learned nothing from me."

Bea scoffed. "I don't need to learn anything from you, I'm amazing at arguing."

I rubbed my temples. All I wanted to do was go back to bed and sleep long enough for Bea and George to forget about all of this. "The day has barely started and I've already got a headache. This has to be a record."

A warm arm draped around my shoulder, enveloping me in the scent of sandalwood and oranges. "Hey, happy birthday," said Fred, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

Despite everything that had happened—all the embarrassment and shame and the fact that I couldn't think about last night without wanting to disintegrate into a pile of dust—I was relieved to see him.

"Oh, don't pretend this is the first time you're seeing each other today," said Bea, with a wicked grin.

"Circles under his eyes, Charlotte was late to breakfast," said George, with an equally devious look. "You're not fooling anyone."

I looked up at Fred with pleading eyes. "This has been my entire morning. Please tell these idiots we didn't have sex last night."

Fred squeezed my shoulders as his expression turned to one of exaggerated horror. "Sex on a  _school night_?" He turned to Bea and George. "You know perfectly well that sex only happens after marriage and then only on Fridays and Saturdays between the hours of eight and eleven. We're civilized people after all."

George looked at Bea. "Those are very valid points."

"Are you turning on me?" asked Bea, appalled.

"Oh, you're one to talk, seeing as you divulged certain classified information to certain parties without the appropriate clearance," said George.

"I  _told_ you I only said it  _might_  have been you—"

"And I told you—"

Though this entire morning was making me reconsider the entire notion of trying to get Bea and George together, the technicalities of this particular disagreement served as a useful distraction. I sped up my pace, ducking into the Transfiguration classroom ahead of them, pulling Fred along with me.

"You all right?" he asked quietly.

I sighed. "Not exactly. I was already feeling rather rotten and exhausted after last night and things somehow got worse and more complicated at breakfast. Which, incidentally, is something I need to talk to you about."

"Yeah, I thought you might," he said. "And also incidentally: I need to speak with you about something important at your earliest convenience."

I groaned, plopping down into my seat. "Please don't tell me that something else has gone sideways."

"It's more of a question of logistics," he said, sitting down next to me. "Honestly, don't worry about it, I just need to make certain we're on the same page."

I heaved another sigh. "I suppose I'll take your word for it."

"Seriously, it's fine. If it were something you should worry about, I'd engineer some sort of distraction to get us out of class."

"I'm not sure if that's as comforting as you intend it to be, but I appreciate the sentiment."

He grinned and nudged his foot against mine. "Want to meet during our free period? I'll even bring you a birthday cupcake."

I found myself smiling—genuinely—for possibly the first time that day. "Where on earth are you going to get a birthday cupcake on such short notice?"

"I have my sources."

"Does that mean I'm getting a cupcake that fell off the back of a broom?"

He poked me in the arm. "Come off it, Lewis, you know I wouldn't do that for your birthday. Any other day, maybe but not your birthday."

I smiled again. "Again, I'm not sure if that's as comforting as you intend it to be, but I appreciate the sentiment."

He grinned. "All right. I will have one legitimately sourced birthday cupcake for you by our free period this afternoon when we will also have our top secret meeting."

I exhaled, my smile fading somewhat as Bea and George entered the room. They seemed to have abandoned their argument in favor of a conversation that was giving Bea that mischievous sort of smile that usually heralded trouble. She caught my eye and wiggled her eyebrows.

I frowned. "Well, either top secret meeting or disaster mitigation effort."

A warm hand covered mine and I looked back at Fred.

"Lewis, it's your birthday," he said, squeezing my hand. "You'll age yourself prematurely if you spend your birthday worrying. Everyone knows that."

I raised an eyebrow, a smirk twitching at the corners of my mouth. "Hadn't heard that one before."

"Well, now you have." He squeezed my hand once more as the bell rang. "Chin up, love. We'll sort it out."

* * *

True to his word, Fred somehow procured a birthday cupcake for me by the time our free period rolled around.

True to his character, he refused to tell me where he got it, but insisted it was safe to eat, an assertion that he was willing to back up by undergoing a blind taste test, so I felt more confident about it than I might have otherwise. The weather was nice so we went outside and returned to the same spot under the magnolia tree.

"So, the thing you wanted to talk to me about," I said, taking a piece of the cupcake before handing him the rest, "how bad is it really?"

He rolled his eyes as he portioned off his own piece of cupcake, setting the rest of it down on a cloth napkin that I'd spread out on the grass between us. "Lewis, I told you, it's not a bad thing, it's a logistics thing."

"Until proven otherwise, I'm assuming that everything that happens today is going to be a disaster of some kind," I said, popping my piece of the cupcake into my mouth.

Fred raised an eyebrow. "Yes, that seems very healthy."

"Look at it this way: I'm going to either be right or pleasantly surprised," I said with a shrug.

"Well, prepare to be pleasantly surprised then: I got an owl from my mum this morning."

I couldn't quite stop myself from smiling. "Oh,  _really_?"

Fred nodded, chewing his piece of cupcake slowly. "She and Bill are coming for the Third Task in June."

I paused. "So…I'm to behave myself, is what you're saying."

Fred cleared his throat. "Not exactly."

"What do you mean?"

He cleared his throat again. "Well…I'd rather Mum didn't know that you and I are…involved."

A smug smirk tugged at my lips. I tried to keep it in check, but I couldn't quite help myself. "Fred Weasley, are you  _embarrassed_  that I'm your fake girlfriend?"

"'Course not," he said, breaking off another piece of the cupcake. "Here's the problem: Mum will  _adore_  you."

I raised an eyebrow. "And that's a problem?"

"Lewis. You're a prefect. You're a favorite for Head Girl. You're clever. Your marks are excellent. You're sweet and well-mannered," he said, ticking off each characteristic on a finger. "What mother wouldn't want her delinquent son romantically involved with someone who is objectively a good influence?"

"Still not seeing why this is a problem…"

Fred sighed as though I were missing something very obvious. "Given that our relationship has an expiration date, I'd rather not have Mum get too attached." His expression turned grim. "I wouldn't be surprised if she turned up with rings and the minister, honestly."

Though I'm certain this wasn't his intention, Fred had given me something rather rare and magnificent on my birthday: the opportunity to tease him mercilessly.

"I dunno, Fred, I think I'd rather like to meet your mum," I said, trying and failing to hide a smile. "You've been my fake boyfriend for nearly three months now, I think we need to start thinking seriously about taking our fake relationship to the next level."

He sighed. "You're having a go at me, aren't you? I knew this would happen."

"Don't you think I've earned it?" I said, giving him my most winning smile. "One, it's my birthday. Two, I've had a rotten day. Three, just think for a moment about the sheer amount of grief that you've given me these last few months. Surely, I should be afforded the opportunity to do the same."

"Listen, Lewis, you know I'm all for a good joke, but there are some things that are really too terrifying to joke about."

"Oh, go on, it's not nearly that bad."

"You don't know my mother," said Fred. "You'd be signing me up for a lifetime of 'whatever happened to that nice Charlotte Lewis girl? She was so lovely' and 'well, if you'd not let that lovely Charlotte Lewis get away, you wouldn't be single now, would you?'"

"That still doesn't sound nearly has bad as you're making it out to be."

"Yeah?" He raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest. "What have you told your parents about us? Shall I write them a letter?"

I'd told them nothing, of course, for much of the same reasons that Fred wanted to keep this secret from his parents: we had an expiration date. Telling my parents would be more complicated than keeping it quiet—especially with the added complication of my sisters who would almost certainly use the opportunity to try and foist a sex talk on me.

And while I'm perfectly willing to have a fake relationship, I draw the line at having to listen to a lecture about all of the sex I'm definitely not having.

"You know, you could've just let me have my moment," I said, shooting him a sour look and helping myself to another piece of the cupcake. "I wasn't actually going to tell your mum."

"Like I said: some things are too serious to make jokes about."

I rolled my eyes. "I still think you're being overdramatic."

"Think what you'd like, just don't get my mother involved in it."

"Well, what are you going to do about your siblings, then?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's not like we've kept this secret from them and you can't very well tell them the real reason why you don't want your mum to know."

Fred waved me off. "That won't be a problem. I'll play it off as not wanting Mum to stick her nose into my business, that sort of thing." He shrugged. "Wouldn't be the first time they've been asked to keep quiet about something like that. Mum's lovely, but she can be…overly inquisitive."

"I see." I sighed, making my eyes as wide and sad as possible. "Well, though it breaks my heart, I suppose I can consent to being your shameful secret fake girlfriend."

"You're a peach, Lewis, but I think the proper term is 'dirty little secret,'" said Fred with a sly grin.

"I'm drawing the line at that verbiage." My smile faded as this morning's exchange with Bea and George returned to the forefront of my mind. "Though, speaking of…we should probably talk about the other thing…"

Fred gave me a crooked grin. "I gather we now have a fake sex life?"

I scowled and slumped against the trunk of the magnolia tree. "Yes. Of a sort."

"You don't have to sound so disappointed. I'm quite the catch, you know."

I rolled my eyes. "Once again, Fred, this has very little to do with your merits as a person and everything to do with the fact that our situation has now become even more stupidly complicated than it already is."

"In a classic Charlotte Lewis move, I think your worry may be slightly excessive, but go on."

I decided to ignore that comment. "I mean, I think that Bea believed me when I told her we didn't have sex, she's just teasing me about it because she thinks it's funny." I picked at my cuticle. "But…I think we have perhaps given the impression that our fake relationship has at least escalated to…" I could feel my cheeks burning. "…well…related activities," I said, making a rather vague sort of gesture.

Fred looked unsurprised. "Well, I suppose it was only a matter of time."

I stared at him. "Really? That's all you have to say about this?"

He shrugged. "Like I said, I think you're making it more complicated than it needs to be. All we really need to do is start sneaking up to my dormitory a few times a week. Shut the hangings on the bed, put up a Silencing Charm, people will draw their own conclusions, even if we're just up there playing chess or what have you."

I thought for a moment before my face settled into a scowl once more. "Well, when you put it like that, it sounds simple."

He raised an eyebrow and gave me a sort of half-smile. "That's because it is, Lewis."

I sighed, picking off another piece of the cupcake. "Yes, well you can say that because you won't have Bea hounding you for details."

"Well," said Fred with an air of resignation, "I suppose you'll just have to tell her that I'm a fantastic shag."

I narrowed my eyes. "Know that the only reason I'm not smashing the rest of this cupcake into your face is because it would be a waste of a perfectly good cupcake."

"At least your priorities are in order."

"Seriously. You don't know what she's like. She's relentless. I mean, I can manage being all coy and evasive, but bloody hell, it gets to be exhausting." I sighed, fiddling absently with the chain of my necklace. "And it's not like I have a well of experience to draw from to invent pertinent details. I may end up inadvertently convincing her of the truth."

"Oh, swipe one of Alicia's romance novels, review a relevant passage, and do a little light plagiarism," said Fred.

I paused for a moment. "You know, that's actually a reasonable and helpful suggestion."

"You needn't sound so surprised."

I rolled my eyes. "Honestly, I half-expected your proposed solution to be 'well, Lewis, if you want our fake sex life to have an air of authenticity, I'd be perfectly willing to make some arrangements, wink wink, nudge nudge, I'm such a laugh.'"

"That's a terrible impression. I sound nothing like that." He gave me the sort of too sly grin that he only used when he knew he was being pert. "But since you mention it, actual sex is always an option."

I sighed. "Fred, I can only handle so much drama in my life at one time. I'm not going to complicate things further."

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, that wasn't a 'no…'"

A sudden flash of memory of his hands creeping up my shirt and his hips rolling against mine had my cheeks burning, a feeling that intensified once I realized what I'd accidentally implied. "Shut up," I said, trying to banish the memory of last night from my mind without looking like I was thinking about last night. "You know very well what I meant."

His grin was wide and insufferable. "Oh really?"

"Yes, really," I said, jabbing my forefinger in to his arm with every syllable. "Honestly, did you and Bea make some sort of pact to harangue me to death on my birthday?"

"Again with the exaggeration." He shook his head. "But I suppose in the spirit of the day, I can stop with this particular line of teasing."

"Thank you."

"…for now," he amended. "All bets are off tomorrow."

I glared at him and he laughed. We were quiet for a minute or so, picking at the remains of the cupcake.

"I do regret to inform you that I am going to have to murder George," I said finally.

Fred raised an eyebrow. "While it  _is_  your birthday, I am going to have to overrule that on the grounds that George is my brother and that would put a rather significant snag in both of our dastardly plans, as George would be dead and you would be in prison."

"Can I spell his mouth shut?"

"That is an improvement in the sense that it's not an imprisonable offense, but it would still complicate our second dastardly plan if George can't talk."

"I dunno, today has made me seriously consider the wisdom of trying to get the two of them together," I said. "I don't know if I am prepared to handle the inevitable headaches."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," said Fred, leaning back and propping himself up on his hands. "They'll probably be preoccupied with resolving all the sexual tension that's been amassing."

I made a face. "Why do you insist on saying things like this?"

"Lewis, surely you were aware that this was a possible outcome of that dastardly plan."

"It's more your unnecessary descriptions of said outcomes that I find upsetting."

"I prefer to think of them as poetic descriptions," he said with a cheeky grin.

"What you prefer to think has no bearing on reality."

"Ouch." Fred picked up the last piece of cupcake and split it, handing me one half. "You're a harsh critic, Lewis."

We were quiet again as we each finished our piece of cupcake.

"What time is it?" I asked after a while.

Fred checked his watch. "Quarter of. We should probably be heading back."

We stood and stretched, shaking cupcake crumbs from our uniforms and picking up our bags before making our way back to the castle, hand-in-hand.

"Are you at least feeling better?" asked Fred as we made our way through the courtyard.

"Eh, marginally." I shrugged. "I'm still tired and a bit sad, but I suppose I feel like we've got a strategy, so that's something."

Fred grinned. "Putting a plan together made you feel better. I'm utterly shocked, this is very out of character for you."

I rolled my eyes but I couldn't help but smile. "Are you mocking the benefits of organization, Weasley? On my  _birthday_?"

"I'd never," he said, his eyes twinkling. He looked away for a moment and his expression changed to something a little more serious. "Though I imagine your mood is about to change for the worse."

Aidan was approaching us, more tired and pale since the last time I'd seen him in the flickering candlelight of the library.

"Charlotte," he said as he approached us. "Can I have a quick word?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Oh my goodness, I am so overwhelmed by the response on that last chapter! You are all so, so nice, thank you.
> 
> I didn't realize this until after I posted Chapter 17, but I've officially passed the 100K word count (and 200 reviews on FFN!). Woo hoo! However, what's amazing to me is not so much that I could write that much (I can be pretty long winded) but the fact that there are actually people who have read all 100K of those words and been like "Yes, I like the way you arranged those!" Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, truly. You have no idea how much your support means to me.
> 
> Speaking of I-can't-believe-people-want-to-read-my-words: it seems like people are on board with the idea of a Bea fic, which is also exciting. One thing that I neglected to mention in my previous note is that this fic will not be posted until Playing With Fire is finished, so if you were concerned about me spending time on that instead of this, have no fear. The tentative title is Burning Bridges.
> 
> I am hoping to have Chapter 19 posted by late January or early February 2019.


	19. A Beautiful Mess

 

The last thing I wanted to do was talk to Aidan Kilbourne. I was physically and emotionally exhausted. The back of my neck and shoulders were starting to ache in a telling sort of way that usually signaled the imminent arrival of a headache. And on top of all of that, it was my  _birthday._ While I'm not much for birthdays, I couldn't help but feel that this was rather unfair: if it's your birthday, you should at least be exempt from doing things that you really, truly do not want to do.

"Charlotte?"

I blinked and it occurred to me that I had been staring at Aidan for the last thirty seconds or so.

"Can I have a quick word?" he asked again. I noticed that there were shadows under his eyes—in fact, he looked at least as awful as I felt. And this probably sounds horrible, but it was rather comforting to know that I wasn't the only one who was feeling miserable.

"I'm not sure that's the best idea," I said carefully. "I'm…well, I'll be honest: I'm not happy with you, Aidan."

He sighed, looking rather guilty. "Yeah, I can imagine," he said quietly.

"I've also got Potions in fifteen minutes," I continued. "I'm just…not really feeling up for a chat."

"Charlotte, please." There was a raw, desperate edge to his voice. "I know you've no reason to, but please…just give me five minutes. That's all."

I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger and let out a long breath. If my day got any worse, maybe I could have a do-over. Surely the universe wouldn't allow me to have such a disaster of a seventeenth birthday. I mean, it's not like I thought that turning seventeen would be perfect or even lifechanging, but I hadn't thought it would be quite this awful. I'd happily settle for something mundane—mundane would be an improvement.

"Charlotte?"

I'd let my mind wander again. I dropped my hand and looked at Aidan. And ultimately, the reason that I decided to hear him out wasn't because he looked so pathetic or that I felt bad for him: it was because I just wanted this entire affair to be over. Perhaps my birthday wouldn't end up being particularly pleasant, but at least I'd have some closure.

I took a deep breath. "I will give you five minutes and you can say whatever you need to say to me right here."

His expression rapidly shifted to some combination of nervousness and relief. "Thank you. I know you're not doing it for me but—I appreciate it." He scuffed his shoe against the floor. "Er…well. I just…I wanted to apologize for…all…that." He glanced briefly at Fred and swallowed, like he didn't want to admit what he'd almost done aloud. "With exams, I haven't been getting much sleep…you know, the stress and all…and…well…" He looked at me for a moment before looking away, his cheeks going rather pink. "It was stupid of me."

I hate to admit this even now, but when he said that, there was a part of me that felt a little…well, hurt isn't quite the right word, but it's close. It  _was_  stupid of him to try and kiss me. He had a girlfriend and as far as he knew, I had a boyfriend. It was objectively not a good idea for all of the obvious reasons.

But…a small and cruel voice inside of me zeroed in on a very different message:  _you are the sort of girl that boys only want to kiss when they are making mistakes_.

Cold Shower Charlotte strikes again.

I knew that it wasn't true. I knew that it wasn't what he meant. I did my best to tell myself that and to push that awful feeling aside. But even so, I could tell that thought would be there for a while, festering and poking at all of my insecurities and rubbing them raw.

I tried to focus on Aidan instead. He was looking at me, his blue eyes sad and earnest, clearly hoping for absolution or at least acknowledgement.

"I mean, I don't really know what to say to that," I said finally. "Of course I'm going to agree with you: it was a stupid thing to do. It was disrespectful. It was hurtful. I appreciate your apology, but…it doesn't really undo anything that happened."

"No, I know," he said rather sadly, like he'd been hoping for a more positive outcome, no matter how unlikely it might have been. "I wasn't really expecting anything. I just wanted to say I was sorry, I wasn't thinking. Not that that's an excuse."

"No, not really." I hesitated for just a second before continuing. "And while I'm not really keen to involve myself in this any more than I already am, if you don't tell Genevieve, I will. It's not fair to her."

"No, I told her," said Aidan quietly, looking away from me again. "Last night. I don't think I could have lived with myself if I hadn't. Or if you hadn't looked away, for that matter."

My heart clenched like a fist.  _It was stupid. It was a mistake._

"How is she?" I asked instead, hoping that he didn't hear the slight quaver in my voice, the one that would tell him that he'd hurt me more than I was admitting.

"She's…well…she's not happy with me. Said she needed to do some thinking." He looked genuinely sad as he said this, and I felt a twinge of pity. Maybe he really did love her. Maybe he threw all of that away with one stupid mistake.

_A mistake._

Aidan cleared his throat and turned his attention somewhat uneasily to Fred. "I—er, I suppose I owe you an apology as well."

"Probably wouldn't hurt," said Fred, his tone almost deceptively light, his expression stony.

"I'm sorry," said Aidan, shifting rather uncomfortably and looking away. "Like I said…it was stupid of me. For a lot of reasons."

I tried not to speculate on what those other reasons might be.

"Think you'll find we're in agreement on that," said Fred.

Between my own inner battle and my desire to get this over with, I was starting to feel rather restless. And while the corridors were empty now, they would become busier as the minutes ticked nearer and nearer to the start of class, and the last thing I wanted was an audience to this spectacle.

"Did you have anything else you wanted to say?" I asked, my fingers twisting absently around the chain of the necklace that Fred had given me.

Aidan shook his head, his shoulders sagging slightly, like this conversation had taken something out of him. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "No…no, that was it."

I made a point of taking Fred's hand. "Think we'll be on our way, then."

"Right." Aidan swallowed. "I'll—er—let you two go ahead. Since we're going to the same place and all."

I nodded. "Thanks."

"I really am sorry, Charlotte," he said quietly. "For whatever that's worth."

I managed a curt nod. "Yeah. See you."

I walked away and didn't look back.

It wasn't until we were down in the damp chill of the dungeons that Fred broke the silence.

"All right?" he asked.

I took a deep breath and was surprised to find myself blinking away tears. I wiped my eyes hastily on the edge of my sleeves. "I don't know. Not really."

"Hey." He'd stopped walking, his hands coming to rest on my shoulders. He looked me directly in the eyes, his expression serious. "Don't you dare cry, you were magnificent."

I managed a choked sort of laugh, even as a single tear rolled down my cheek. "Thanks, Fred."

"Lewis." His expression became even more serious. "What did I just say about crying?"

I laughed again—more genuinely this time—and leaned my forehead against his shoulder. "I'm just so bloody  _exhausted_. This day feels like it's been a week and it's not even over."

His arms went around me. "I know."

"And it's my  _birthday_ ," I said sadly, a bit of a whine creeping into my voice. "Birthdays aren't meant to be like this."

"I will write a very strongly worded letter to the local papers."

I sighed, shutting my eyes. "I feel like I could sleep for days. I don't know how I'm going to get through this class."

"Want to skive off?"

I pulled back to look at him, my expression settling into a frown. "Are you trying to make my life miserable? Can you imagine how completely insufferable Bea and George would be if  _both_  of us didn't turn up to the same class?"

Fred shrugged. "They'd find something else to focus on eventually."

"'Eventually' could mean anything from a week to a year and I'm not willing to risk subjecting myself to that. I've got enough to worry about."

"Oh, go on, you're made of sterner stuff that that, Lewis," he said, grinning.

"There's also the fact that Snape would almost certainly have our heads."

He raised an eyebrow. "Doubt it. I think Snape may actually like you. He's much less contemptuous toward you than he is to the rest of us."

I rolled my eyes. "I think he thinks I'm moderately competent at best and mostly appreciates the fact that I have a healthy respect for the rules. That's very different than liking someone."

"Don't undersell yourself."

"I'm not and even if I was, I doubt he'd look fondly on me skipping class." I sighed. "Though I'm not sure how I'm going to make it through class without falling asleep."

Fred's eyes lit up. "So what I'm hearing is that you're not necessarily opposed to skipping class, it's really just skipping this particular class that's the problem?"

I groaned. "Fred. I'm exhausted. Stop trying to play mind games with me, I haven't got the energy to keep up."

We'd reached the Potions classroom. It was still a little too early to go in—the corridors were just starting to echo with the sounds of students moving to their next class and Snape was the sort of teacher who was apt to look on a too early arrival as an annoyance or a cause for suspicion. And really, I didn't really want to spend more time in that classroom than I had to.

"I'm not playing mind games, Lewis," said Fred as I leaned against the wall outside the classroom. "I'm merely trying to establish what your feelings are with regard to skiving off."

"Now you're arguing semantics and you know how I feel about that."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Were you not just arguing semantics mere minutes ago when I suggested that Snape was rather fond of you?"

"Why are you doing this to me?" I whined. "I'm so tired I can barely think straight."

He grinned. "Oh, go on, you've just got to get through this one class and then you can go nap."

"You make it sound so easy," I said, stifling a yawn.

"It's because I believe in you."

I rolled my eyes. "Your motivations are never that pure."

"I resent that," he said, though he was still grinning.

I hadn't noticed Bea coming down the corridor and she was now sidling up to us and smiling in a too-sly sort of way that immediately had me on my guard.

"Well, hello," she said. "How was your adorable picnic?"

I sighed. "Were you spying on us?"

"No," said Bea, not looking at all innocent. "I just  _happened_  to look out the window and notice."

"So you were spying," I said tonelessly.

"She was spying," said George as he joined us.

"That is a false and vicious rumor, George Weasley," said Bea without missing a beat. "You will be hearing from my solicitors about this."

George grinned, folding his arms across his chest and leaning casually against the wall. "I'll be filing a countersuit regarding your breach of contract from this morning."

"I was in the right and I'm not going to explain that to you again," said Bea before turning back to me. "Anyway, I just happened to look out the window and notice. It wasn't really intentional spying. I think I'm in the clear."

George clucked his tongue. "You've just admitted to the crime. Ergo, I was not spreading a false and vicious rumor, I was stating a fact. I'll be seeking additional damages for your slander of me."

"It's not slander if there's no reputation to damage," said Bea with a feigned sort of innocence.

"I would just like to point out that it's my birthday," I said before George could respond. "It would be an excellent day to not make my life more difficult."

"Oh, you know we only do this because we love you," said Bea, wrapping her arms around me in a too-tight hug and beaming up at me. "Besides, it wasn't proper spying. George wouldn't even make an entry in the notebook about it." She shot a triumphant look at George. "Take  _that_  to your solicitors, Weasley."

George shrugged. "I've only got so many pages, you know."

I sighed. "None of this is comforting. And you're squishing my ribs, Bea."

"It's because I love you so much," she said, not letting go.

"You can love me a little less."

"Not possible."

Bea eventually had to let me go, largely because class was about to start and Snape was not the sort of teacher who would take kindly to the continuation of that joke.

For perhaps the first time in my entire academic career at Hogwarts, I found myself briefly grateful for Snape's grumpy disposition.

I stumbled my way through Potions, biting the inside of my lip to try and keep myself awake. Fred was rather unusually helpful, nudging me every so often and taking on some of the tasks that required more alertness and precision than I was currently capable of. Aidan had a seat toward the back of the classroom, so it was relatively easy for me not to look at him. I kept my eyes forward, trying to focus on the board and the monotonous drawl of Snape's voice.

One small eternity later, class finally ended. I dawdled a bit as I packed up my things, largely to avoid awkwardly running into Aidan while trying to leave the classroom, but once I'd cleared that obstacle, a nap became the number one most important item on my agenda. I would have a nap before dinner and I would feel so much better. I would end the day on a better note.

That was the plan, anyway.

But things went awry when I very nearly ran into Genevieve heading up the dungeon stairs. She was hurrying in the opposite direction, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, her honey blonde hair disheveled. She didn't look like she'd slept well—or at all, for that matter—and I briefly recalled that I hadn't seen her in Transfiguration that morning.

Before I could really think much about it, I was mumbling an excuse to Fred and peeling off down the stairs after Genevieve. I didn't really know what I was going to say when I caught up with her, but the idea of letting her stew in this alone made me feel rather sick.

She wasn't that far ahead of me when I reached the landing. "Genevieve!"

She turned around, her eyebrows lifting slightly when she realized it was me. I couldn't quite gauge her expression and for the first time, it occurred to me that she might actually be angry with me or at least not think very kindly of me.

"Hi Charlotte," she said as I approached. Her voice sounded rather rough, like she'd been crying. "Can I help you with something?"

"I just…" I hesitated for a second. "I wanted to see if you were all right."

Her laugh was short, sharp, and bitter, entirely different from what I'd heard from her in the past. "No, I'm not. Not really."

"Yeah…" I swallowed. "Look, I know you might be angry with me—"

She frowned. "Why would I be angry with you?"

"Well." I made a rather useless, vague gesture. "The whole…thing."

She laughed again, though this time it sounded more genuine, more like herself. "That would be stupid." She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "I won't lie: there was a small, jealous part of me that was initially a little mad at you when Aidan told me what happened." She shrugged. "But it was a passing, petty sort of thought. You didn't do anything wrong. Quite the opposite: you were the one who stopped it. I certainly can't be mad at you for that."

"Well, I feel awful about it," I said quietly. "I'm sorry I was even involved."

Her expression softened slightly. "You and I are fine, Charlotte. There's nothing for you to feel awful about."

I couldn't help feeling guilty when she said that. I'd made the right choice, but hadn't I hoped for this outcome? Didn't entertaining that hope make me just a little awful?

Genevieve blew out a long breath, oblivious to my internal drama, her gaze drifting to some point in the middle distance. "Aidan and I…well. I don't know what we are. Not fine, certainly. I don't even know if there is a 'we' after all of this." She looked at me. "Is it stupid that I haven't decided whether or not to dump him?"

"No, of course not," I said gently. "It's not wrong to take time to think things over."

"Yeah." She swallowed, her expression settling back into a frown. "People act like it's such an easy thing. And I suppose in some ways it is—you betray a fundamental trust of your relationship and it's not really a relationship anymore, is it? Not in the way it was." She sighed. "But the memory of the love that you had for that person is still so close and real and it's just hard to give  _that_  part of it up."

I didn't really know what to say to that, so I simply nodded.

"What would you do?" she asked, her voice rather small, almost like she was afraid of the answer.

I took a deep breath. "I don't know, honestly. I think that either choice is difficult in its own way."

She nodded, pressing her lips into a thin line. "I just…I never expected him to do this, you know? That's largely why I needed time to think about it. I'm just trying to wrap my head around it. It doesn't seem real." She chewed on her lower lip for a moment. "I thought…it seemed like he meant it when he said he loved me." Her pretty green eyes filled with tears and she blinked quickly. "That's the part that hurts the most."

I put my hand on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Genevieve."

Her eyes squeezed shut, her face crumpled, and suddenly she was crying, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I hesitated for a moment before stepping forward and hugging her tightly.

"He's an idiot," I said quietly.

Some combination of a laugh and a sob escaped her lips. "I know. It just really, really hurts."

"I know."

We stood there for a while, Genevieve crying into my shoulder while I rubbed her back. A whole range of emotions blazed through me: anger with Aidan, sadness and sympathy for Genevieve, and guilt and self-loathing for my role in all of it.

I was the architect of this misery and somehow, I was still surprised that it had ended up like this.

After a while, Genevieve's sobs quieted and with a few shuddering breaths, she managed to pull herself together. I dropped my arms and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve.

"Sorry, I'm just a mess," she said. "It's been coming in waves like that."

"You don't need to apologize," I said gently. "It's fine."

She gave me a sad, watery sort of smile. "Thanks, Charlotte. You're a good friend."

A queasy sort of guilt gnawed at my guts. She wouldn't be saying this if she knew the half of it. I wasn't a good friend. I wasn't even sure if I was a good person.

"Well, I try," is what I said instead.

She gave me another uncertain smile and took a deep breath. "You know what the stupidest part of this is?"

"What's that?"

"I never worried about the two of you studying together, even though I knew he'd fancied you," she said. "Other girls might have done, but I didn't."

"Sorry to prove you wrong on that," I said, feeling somewhat embarrassed.

"No, listen: I wasn't worried about it because I thought you'd put a stop to it straightaway," she said. "So I was right on that. But also, I didn't think Aidan would be thick enough to try something while you were with Fred specifically."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

She smiled, raising an eyebrow slightly and for a fraction of a second, she seemed a little like her old self. "I didn't think anyone who'd seen the two of you together would be stupid enough to try and get in the middle of it. It wouldn't really be a fair fight, you know?"

My stomach clenched with a strange sort of feeling—some combination of nerves and embarrassment that didn't seem to have a name. "I suppose."

Genevieve took a deep breath and wiped her eyes on her sleeve again. "Well. Maybe one day I'll be lucky enough to have something like that." Her lower lip trembled for a half second before her jaw set and her chin jutted forward with a steely sort of determination. "All right. Well. I'm going to go wash up before dinner, I think."

I nodded, glancing at the time on her watch. It was later than I expected. "All right, well…if you need anything…"

She gave me a small, sad smile. "I'll let you know. Thanks, Charlotte."

I tried to ignore the sick, guilty sort of feeling clawing at my insides. "Any time."

We parted, Genevieve going back toward her common room while I headed in the opposite direction up the stairs. It was too late to go back to Gryffindor Tower—if I did that, I'd have to turn around and go back down to dinner. Briefly, I lamented the nap that I'd forgone in favor of talking to Genevieve. I was still so very tired.

As I reached the top of the stairs, it occurred to me that I hadn't really had a moment to myself the entire day. Suddenly, the only thing I wanted was a few moments of quiet—just enough to let my guard down and relax for a little bit. And while the girls' bathroom isn't usually my top choice for a relaxing location, at that moment, it was my best option.

It wasn't until I'd turned the lock on the stall that the knots my neck and shoulders finally began to relax. I put the lid of the toilet seat down and sat down, pulling my bookbag into my lap and slouching across it like it was some sort of pillow. I emptied my lungs of air and sat there for a moment, listening to the distant thud of my heart beating in my ears.

Exhausted didn't really seem like an adequate word to describe how I felt.

There were tears brimming in my eyes, I realized. I was just  _feeling_  all too much—there were so many different things for me to process that my brain sort of looked at it all with a shrug and said, "well, tears ought to cover that."

I was mad at Aidan, of course. He had been so sweet to me for these last several years and he'd made me think that he was a better person than he was; he'd made me think that he was the sort of person I wanted to be with. I was mad that he couldn't live up to his own example: a boy who writes notes in the margins of paperback mysteries shouldn't be the sort of boy who also tries to cheat on his girlfriend and then blames it on lack of sleep.

It was disappointment that hurt in a very strange and specific way. I felt stupid for falling for him. The last several months of scheming and plotting felt like a waste, the details of our dastardly plan seeming incredibly stupid in the harsh light of this new knowledge. There was also the fact that I'd initially tried to deal with that hurt by kissing Fred the way I had, dragging us both over some invisible line.

I was mad at Bea for unknowingly poking at these wounds, gleefully demanding details about sex that I wasn't having with a boyfriend who wasn't real. George's interest in her was only a twist of the knife—even when she didn't want to be in a relationship, she had someone who wanted her. For a moment, I was even mad at Fred for still having Angelina while I was now more alone and pathetic than I had been at the start of this

And then there was what Aidan had said—that trying to kiss me was stupid, that it was a mistake. Intellectually, I understood that what he likely meant was that he should not have tried to kiss me when both of us were in relationships. But what my mind seized on was the notion that I was not the sort of girl who was kissed unless it was a mistake. The longest relationship I'd had was a fake one. I'd never been in love.

But the hardest truth—one that I'd started to contemplate during my conversation with Genevieve—was the fact that I was responsible for a lot of what had happened in the last twenty-four hours. I had been in the library with Aidan because I'd hoped he would—eventually—want to kiss me. Even though I didn't want it to happen in the order that it did, for the past several months, I'd been hoping for an outcome that included Genevieve in tears.

I'd told Fred that I wondered if I was the villain in this story. This was the first time when I didn't doubt it.

I sat there for a long time combing through my various failings and failures and hurting in a way that I ought to have seen coming. It was only when my stomach started grumbling that I realized I'd been there for quite a while. Dinner had started, probably.

A few deep breaths later and I was standing in front of the mirror, assessing my appearance. I looked like I'd been crying—my face was red, my eyes were swollen. I splashed some cold water on my face before fishing in my pocket for my wand. I tapped it to my nose, muttering the incantation for a spell that Bianca had taught me just before I'd left for my first year at Hogwarts.

"You'll need this," she'd said as we sat cross-legged in her room.

I remember being somewhat disappointed, as I'd thought she had something more thrilling to tell me. "I don't see why I would. I don't cry all that often."

She gave me a soft, knowing sort of smile. "Yes, well, sometimes you need to have a good cry without having to explain yourself to everyone. That's what this is for."

I'd probably never admit this to Bianca, but that was perhaps one of the more useful charms in my arsenal. When I looked at myself in the mirror again, I looked normal—maybe a little tired, but not like I'd been crying.

I took a deep breath, pushed my shoulders back, and lifted my chin up. All I needed to do was get through dinner. I could do that.

I was feeling reasonably confident until the moment Bea's eyes locked on me as I approached the Gryffindor table, her gaze narrowing in a very particular way that almost certainly meant that I was about to get an earful.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked, taking the empty seat next to Fred and dropping my bookbag on the floor. Someone—Fred, maybe—had already made up a plate for me.

" _You didn't tell me that Aidan Kilbourne tried to make a move on you!_ " she hissed, her nose scrunching up and her brow furrowing.

I looked at Fred, exasperated. He held up his hands. "I don't know how she got that out of me, honestly."

"Don't be too hard on him, there may have been some threats involved," said George.

"Stop changing the subject," said Bea, shooting George a look before turning back to me, eyes blazing. I tried to recall the last time I'd seen her this angry and found that I couldn't. "You didn't  _tell_  me."

I sighed, picking up my fork and poking at my mashed potatoes. "I was going to tell you next time we were alone. And I mean really alone, Bea, not in the middle of the common room or at the breakfast table."

Bea exhaled, some of the fire going out of her eyes. "Well, I suppose that's fair," she said.

It occurred to me that I had a rare opportunity to tell the truth. "That's why I went up to Fred's room last night," I said. "I was upset."

Bea winced. "Please tell me that you then had really passionate sex for several hours after that so I don't feel horrible about teasing you as much as I did this morning."

I gave her a stern look and began cutting up my roast beef.

"Think that's a no on that one," said George.

Bea shot him another look. " _You_  should also feel guilty. You were the one who started the rumor in the first place."

George gave her a wry look. "Do you really want to lose this argument again and further complicate our pending lawsuits?"

Fred cut in as Bea opened her mouth to protest. "Once again, you're both overlooking the fact that I clearly explained that sex can never happen on a weeknight. Yesterday was a Wednesday, so we held hands and had a firm goodnight handshake like  _respectable_  people."

Bea smirked like she still suspected something more untoward, but mercifully—perhaps because she felt a little guilty—she didn't push it. "Look, the important thing is that Aidan is a wanker."

"I think we can all agree on that," said Fred.

"And a fuckwit."

"That as well."

"And I'm going to destroy him," she concluded, that blazing intensity returning to her eyes.

I set my fork down. "You are going to do no such thing. It's over and done with and I want it to stay that way."

"It can be part of my birthday gift to you," she said, as though she hadn't quite heard me. "Aidan Kilbourne's total destruction."

"Bea, seriously," I said, giving her a pleading sort of look. "The best gift you could give me would be to just let this die quietly. He apologized to both of us, he seems miserable, and I suspect Genevieve is going to dump him once she absorbs the shock. He's experienced the consequences—I don't really want anything else."

Bea scowled, but her eyes softened a bit, like she understood even though she didn't agree. She slouched back in her seat, her arms folded across her chest. "I mean…fine. But I just want to emphasize that I find this  _personally offensive._ "

"Think we'd picked up on your feelings on that, love," said George, patting her gently on the shoulder.

"It was rather hard to miss," said Fred.

Bea glowered at the two of them. "You're mocking me and I don't like it."

"Us? Never," said Fred, wearing a feigned expression of shock.

"Wouldn't dream of it," said George, not at all convincingly.

Bea was evidently too committed to ranting about Aidan to be bothered any further by Fred and George's commentary. "It's just so bloody  _stupid_ ," she continued, stabbing at her roast beef with an unnecessary amount of force. "Imagine being thick enough to think that cheating is a great idea when you're Aidan-sodding-Kilbourne."

I frowned, taking a bite of mashed potatoes. "What do you mean?"

Bea sighed. "I mean—obviously I don't think this now, but I'd always thought he was fine. He was nice." She paused, making a face. "But he's just so  _boring_. He's like if a bowl of room temperature milk were a person."

My food suddenly felt like stones in my mouth and my stomach churned. I picked up my water goblet and took a drink. I hadn't known that Bea felt that way about Aidan and hearing her say that now—when I was already disappointed in him, when I was mad at myself for being so stupid, when he'd said that kissing me was a mistake—was too much. If we kept talking about this—if I didn't get away soon—I was going to fall apart and that would mean explaining too many truths that I'd kept from Bea.

I caught Fred's eye and he seemed to understand. He casually changed the subject—honestly, at this point, I can't even remember what he changed it to, as I wasn't really listening so much as I was trying to keep giving the impression that I wasn't upset.

The rest of the meal was a bit of a blur as I tried to focus on choking down the rest of my food and maintaining my composure. Finally, Fred's hand found mine under the table.

"Listen, I hate to eat and run," he said, giving me a meaningful sort of look. "But I believe we have an appointment."

I bit back a sigh as Bea's eyes lit up with barely contained glee. I knew that meant we'd be going back up to his room. I hated to admit it, but it was a good plan—it was the option that afforded the most privacy for my impending breakdown and the option that promised the least amount of interference from Bea and George—but there was part of me that wanted an option that didn't fuel any eyebrow wiggling commentary.

"On a  _Thursday_ ," said Bea, her jaw dropping as I rose from the table. "I'm scandalized."

"It is her birthday," George pointed out. "Must be special occasion sex."

I gave them both a stern look, my cheeks flaming. "It's none of your business."

Bea propped her chin up in her hands, grinning at me cheekily. "I expect a full report later."

I stuck out my tongue at her and picked up my bookbag. "It's a date for my birthday, there's nothing untoward happening."

George gave Bea a knowing look. "Told you it was a special occasion."

Bea smirked at me. "Be safe."

I glared at both of them, putting my hands on my hips. "I wasn't going to point this out, but haven't you learned your lesson about teasing me about this?"

"I never learn anything, ever," Bea said, grinning. "It's part of my personal brand."

Fred's hand went to the small of my back. "C'mon, Lewis."

I sent one more scowl in Bea and George's direction before exiting the Great Hall with Fred. Really, it is a miracle that they let us go out without catcalls and wolf whistles.

"Sorry," said Fred, "but I reckoned it was the most private option available."

There was, of course, that little study room, but even if I could find it again, it reminded me a bit too much of Aidan.

"No, you're right," I said, sighing.

He was quiet for a moment. "Are you all right?"

I drew in a shaky breath. "I'll tell you in a moment."

He squeezed my hand and we walked up the stairs in silence.

The common room was quiet when we walked in, as most people were still at dinner, and thankfully the boys' dormitory was deserted. I hesitated for a moment before toeing off my shoes, leaving them on the floor next to Fred's. Let people draw their own conclusions.

I sat down cross-legged on the bed while he repeated the same routine from the night before: shutting the hangings, a silencing charm, and  _Lumos_  before he sat down on the bed across from me, his knees barely grazing mine.

"Well," he said, giving me a rather grim look, "happy birthday."

There was something rather darkly funny about it and I suppose that's why I started laughing so hard. It was the sort of laughter that can only be described as hysterical and maybe a little unhinged. I laughed so hard that I started crying and then quite suddenly I was crying too hard to laugh and Fred was gathering me in his arms, and I was sobbing into the front of his school jumper.

The fortunate thing about this was that it was relatively short-lived. Probably, the fact that I'd already cried earlier that day coupled with my general exhaustion helped.

"Feel better?" he asked, once my sobs subsided.

"I think the problem is that I feel too much." I gently pulled away from him and stretched out on the bed, lying down on my side and bunching up one of his pillows under my cheek. "I think this is the first birthday where I actually feel older. Like several decades older. I'm exhausted."

Fred shifted so that he was lying down on his side next to me, our faces inches apart. "I take it your talk with Genevieve didn't go well?"

"I mean, it was fine. She's not angry with me or anything." I worried my lower lip between my teeth. "I just…feel awful."

"If you're blaming yourself for this, Lewis—"

"Of course I am," I said, my eyes brimming with tears. "This is what I wanted all along, isn't it? I wanted them to break up so that I could be happy. I'm a miserable person wishing misery on others and that's why I'm alone."

"There's a difference between wanting to be with someone and—by extension—hoping they'll split up with their girlfriend. It's not the same thing as facilitating cheating."

"Yes, but are you saying that because it's right or because you're in the same position?"

I knew the second the words came out of my mouth that this was the wrong thing to say. It was too blunt—I was being cruel when he was trying to be kind to me.

"I'm saying it because I'm on your side, Charlotte." The slight edge creeping into his voice was the only indication that he was in any way bothered by what I'd said.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't be," I said quietly, a few stray tears trailing down my cheeks.

"Don't be stupid," he said, his voice softening slightly.

"I'm sorry," I said, wiping my eyes against the sleeve of my shirt. "I'm just…I'm a mess today."

A grim sort of smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "I'd gathered that."

I laughed weakly. "It's that obvious?"

His smiled shifted into something more genuine. "Only a little."

We were both quiet for a minute.

"He kept saying that it was a stupid thing to do. And he's right: it was." I swallowed. "But…part of me feels like there was also…that maybe…that I'm not the sort of person who gets kissed unless it's a mistake, you know?"

Fred frowned. "Well, it's no wonder you're a mess if that's the sort of rubbish you've been tormenting yourself with."

"Fred, literally the most kissing I've done in my seventeen years on this planet has been part of an elaborate charade. That's not the most encouraging thing."

"As I've explained previously, that doesn't mean it's a mistake. Or unenjoyable, for that matter. You're overthinking it and selling yourself short in the process."

"So, the usual, then."

His lips curled into a slight smile. "It's very on brand for you, yes, though you're not normally quite this hard on yourself."

I sighed. "I suppose."

There was another moment of quiet.

"I didn't know that Bea felt that way about Aidan." I swallowed, willing myself not to cry. "That was…hard to hear."

"I can imagine."

I could feel more tears rising in my throat, so I decided to change the subject. "How insufferable d'you think she's going to be about us coming up here again? I'm trying to envision it and all I see is teasing for the rest of my natural life."

Fred quirked an eyebrow upward. "I dunno, she seemed like she felt rather guilty about haranguing you. You might get a reprieve."

"I'm not sure how long that will last." I sighed. "I really should have thought about all of this before I came barreling up here last night."

"Honestly, we probably would've had to address it sooner rather than later," said Fred. "Speaking of, I keep meaning to ask if we're in love yet."

"I mean, if we're inventing a fake sex life, I suppose we ought to be." I gave him a sly smile. "Though that does make your decision to hide me from your mother especially upsetting. Why are you ashamed of our fake love, Fred?"

"As I said, I'll tell my parents the moment you tell yours," he said with a smirk.

I made a face at him. "Fine."

We were quiet again. Exhaustion was starting to catch up with me and I found myself struggling to keep my eyes open.

"You can sleep if you'd like," said Fred after a moment. "You're going a bit cross-eyed and we'll probably need to stay up here for a bit anyway."

"Only if you promise not to stare at me," I said. "You've made too many jokes about that previously for me to not be concerned about it."

He gave me a sleepy sort of smile. "Honestly, I'm not far from dropping off myself. You forget I was up as late as you were."

"You'd better be telling the truth," I said, my eyes sliding shut.

"I wouldn't dream of lying to you, Lewis."

"Ha. Right."

"Or I'm too tired to do it properly at any rate."

"That sounds more accurate."

I was almost asleep when he spoke next.

"I'm sorry your birthday was rubbish."

"'S all right," I said back to him sleepily. "Next year will be better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know I say this every time, but thank you all so much for taking the time to read, follow, leave comments, etc. It is genuinely a delight to hear from you and it always makes my day. Thank you so much.
> 
> This is another chapter where I have mixed feelings about how it turned out—let me know what you think.
> 
> If you are a reader of Fred/OC, BooksVCigarettes has a new one called I See Fire (if it's not on AO3, it's on FFnet) that I've been loving lately (she also wrote A Lid For Every Pot, George Weasley which is George/OC and excellent).
> 
> I am hoping to have Chapter 20 up by the end of February.


	20. Quicksand

 

It was dark when I woke.

Fred was curled up behind me, his arms wrapped loosely around my waist. There was a quilt tangled round my legs, though I was reasonably certain that it had started off wrapped around the two of us. I had a vague memory of waking up with chills and muttering at him to budge over. There'd been a moment's worth of shuffling about until we'd settled into the position that we were in currently, my chills subsiding with the combination of the heat of his body and the weight of the quilt.

A slight shiver ran up my spine and I gently moved Fred's arms so I could sit up. He stirred slightly as I untangled the quilt from my legs and spread it more evenly over the two of us.

"What's the time?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

"Dunno."

He fumbled with his watch for a moment. "Quarter past nine. Feels like it ought to be later."

I laid back down, pulling the quilt back up to my shoulders, and Fred's arms snaked back around my waist as I settled back against him. "How long d'you think we ought to stay up here?"

"Probably a little longer," he said, his breath tickling the back of my neck. "Hasn't been all that long. More importantly, though, you're quite comfortable and I don't really feel like moving for the foreseeable future."

"So what you're saying is you're lazy."

"Lazy and comfortable, Lewis. Be specific."

I laughed quietly. "Noted."

I found myself relaxing as I listened to his breathing gradually become even and deep. My eyes slid closed.

He had a point: this was quite comfortable.

I realized that this was the first time I'd ever been in bed with a boy. Or the second time, I suppose—technically, I'd been in his bed last night, though I'd vaulted over that particular milestone with so much accompanying drama that it had been rather overshadowed. And granted, it was a rather innocent iteration of "in bed with a boy"—we weren't having sex or anything and we'd slept together only in the most literal sense of the word—but it was still a new thing.

And it was a rather nice thing, I thought. It was very comfortable and safe sort of feeling being all cuddled up like this. I could see the appeal. And really, if it was appealing in a non-romantic situation like this, it seemed like it might be rather wonderful if you were with someone who you loved.

That particular thought generated a small pang of sadness. I certainly wasn't here under particularly enviable or romantic circumstances. I wasn't in a real relationship and I'd only ended up here owing to the spectacular disaster that had been my day, not because Fred especially wanted me to be here.

I sighed. Sodding Aidan Kilbourne.

My eyes stung a bit, but I'd already cried so much that I wasn't sure I could cry any more without shriveling up into a Charlotte-shaped husk. So instead I tried to comfort myself with practical reassurances: one day, this would all be a distant memory. These wounds would fade to bruises and then to nothing more than a story that I might tell from time to time. And really, as much as it hurt now, it probably wasn't as bad as I was making it out to be. Even though I didn't have a proper boyfriend now, I was only seventeen. There was still plenty of time for me yet. Maybe my someone wasn't at Hogwarts; maybe he was at Hogwarts but I hadn't realized yet or maybe we both needed to do some growing up before we were right for each other. Having a boyfriend wasn't the singular purpose of my life, nor was it what made my life meaningful. I would accomplish bigger and better things: I was more than whoever I happened to be dating.

I was fine. And even if I didn't feel fine, I would be fine. Everything would be fine.

I repeated this to myself over and over. And to a certain extent, I believed everything I was saying.

But…there was a small, irrational part of me that was holding steadfast to the notion that I was Cold Shower Charlotte, that I would die a virgin and alone, that somehow, this was a fate worse than any other.

And while there had always been a part of me that was skeptical that our fake relationship plan would yield any results, it had at least offered me the fleeting illusion that some wonderful romance was in my future, that Cold Shower Charlotte wasn't a forever sort of thing. Unlikely as it may have been, I had been leaning on that version of the future more than I'd realized and that was why its sudden absence hurt as much as it did.

And now that that possibility had been yanked away from me, I was left with a more problematic and disappointing present that seemed like it would only lead to a similarly discouraging future. I was intentionally lying to my best friend on a regular basis. The boy who I'd spent the last several years fancying wasn't the person I thought he was. I had a fake boyfriend instead of a real one. Even the benefits of that—regularly scheduled snogging—were accompanied by some upsetting realities. Sure, Fred kissed me like he enjoyed it—he'd said as much on more than one occasion—but that was a function of biology. We sought that closeness because we were seventeen, alone, and heartbroken in more ways than either one of us wanted to admit. We could have sex and it wouldn't mean anything other than a momentary pleasure used to stave off demons that we weren't brave enough to face.

The memory of last night's frantic kissing and hands pressed against bare, heated skin was still fresh enough that even thinking about sex with Fred in hypothetical terms was enough to conjure a blush so intense that I would swear it raised my body temperature. This is not even mentioning the fact that it was an absolutely ludicrous idea. It was the sort of thought that  _ought_ to be immediately dismissed without further inquiry.

But I was tired, upset, and desperate to feel wanted and that's usually the sort of toxic combination that makes it easy to muse about things that are tucked away in Pandora's boxes for good reasons.

I suppose that's one explanation for why I started thinking about this.

I hadn't been lying during our Valentine's Day baring of souls when I'd told Fred that there was part of me that wanted to just lose my virginity and get it over with. I didn't particularly like the idea of being inexperienced and I'd read enough books and heard enough from my sisters and Bea that I expected a mediocre first time anyway. When I looked at it that way, getting it over with seemed far more preferable than letting it loom over me like some sort of tedious and annoying obligation: floss, laundry, make bed, lose virginity.

And here is where this entire line of thinking became rather dangerous and extremely stupid: I realized that there wasn't really anything stopping me from doing that if both of us wanted to. With my plans for Aidan neatly quashed, I didn't really have the possibility of an impending relationship to complicate things. I wouldn't have to keep lying to Bea. I could get it over with. I could remove dying a virgin from my list of irrational fears.

It was a really bad idea. I knew that then, just as I knew that I had a bad habit of exercising poor judgment when the lights were low and Fred was involved. And though there was still a lot that I did not know, I at least had the presence of mind to note that this could become a problem for me if I wasn't careful. It was a bad idea, certainly, but it was the sort of bad idea that was still a little tempting, the sort of bad idea that can easily trick you into believing that you're clever enough to escape the consequences, that somehow, the outcome would be different for you.

And even though I'd spent the last several months swearing up and down that I was tired of being careful, I found myself drifting back to sleep in Fred's arms while the phrase  _I will be careful_  echoed over and over in my head.

The fact that I felt the need to warn myself about this at all was another clue that I missed.

* * *

"Hey. Lewis."

I started, my heart beating wildly. My dreams had been intense and strange, all filled with dark shadows and spindly limbed creatures with greedy, reaching fingers and gaping mouths filled with too sharp teeth and serpentine tongues. My heart was pounding like clawed hands were still grasping at me and it took me a moment to remember where I was and why I wasn't in my own bed.

"'smatter?"

"It's past midnight."

"Oh." I frowned, trying to process this piece of knowledge as my brain sluggishly lurched into action.

Fred rubbed my shoulder. "You all right? You were mumbling a bit in your sleep."

"Just a bad dream." I shuddered slightly and sat up, rubbing my eyes. "There were these… _things_  that had come up from the lake. They were all shadowy and creepy and they got in through the castle through the dungeons and I was trying to outrun them…"

Even though it was dark, I could tell he was smiling. "That sounds rather believable. They were probably Hagrid's latest pets. You know, the slightly dodgy import that he's not  _technically_  supposed to have."

I combed my fingers through my hair, twisting it back into what I hoped was a reasonably put together bun. "So Dream Me was about to die because Hagrid is very selective about observing certain regulations regarding magical creatures? That's not particularly comforting."

"No, I reckon Dream Hagrid was about to come running into the dungeons," he said. "'Not ter worry, Miss Lewis, they're harmless, jus' lookin' for their meal.'" Fred's Hagrid impression was not as good as Bea's, but it was a respectable attempt. "Then he'd put out a bucket of mulled wine and fish or something like that and they'd flock to him and curl up like kittens. Probably, they'd all have names. At least one would be called Doris."

I couldn't quite hold back a smile. "All right, fine, that does sound like Hagrid."

"Told you."

I yawned and stretched. "Is it really after midnight?"

"Twenty past, to be precise."

I sighed, trying not to think about the walk back to my dormitory. "I should probably get going."

"Probably. Unless you'd care to wake up the same way I do every morning, which is to the dulcet sounds of George swearing at his alarm clock."

I laughed quietly. "Think I'll stick to Bea's incoherent grumbling and Alicia and Angelina fighting over the shower."

"Suit yourself."

I opened the hangings. The dormitory was dark save for the moonlight streaming in from the windows; the hangings on the other beds were (mercifully) shut. I stood, fumbling a bit for my shoes in the dark.

"Well, it was nice sleeping with you, Lewis," said Fred, his infuriating smirk apparent even in the dark.

"Stuff it," I said, swatting him on the shoulder, hoping that he couldn't see how much I was likely blushing or guess at the stupid ideas I'd been pondering only a few hours ago. I leaned in and pecked him quickly on the cheek. "But thanks for everything."

He grinned and his hand cupped my cheek, drawing me in for a quick kiss on the lips. It was short and sweet, and it left me feeling rather strange in a way that I couldn't quite define.

"Goodnight, Lewis. And happy birthday."

"Thanks. Sleep well."

I tiptoed across the silent dormitory and slipped quietly out the door, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the dim light of the corridor outside. I crept down the stairs, hoping for an empty common room, even though the entire point of crafting a fake sex life was ostensibly to be seen leaving the boys' dormitory late in the evening. But honestly, my day had been eventful enough as it was—I was ready to go back up to my room for the rest of the evening.

"Psst!"

The common room was empty save for two familiar faces: Bea and George. Of course.

Part of me was annoyed to see them—I wanted to go to bed without any commentary, giggling, or teasing. But the other part of me was rather intrigued by the fact that they were sitting together alone on one of the common room couches late at night. It seemed like a promising development, though I couldn't help but note that their body language was decidedly platonic—I clearly hadn't walked in on anything.

"Charlotte! Come over here!" Bea hissed, waving me over to where she and George were sitting.

I considered this for a moment, pausing on the landing. My birthday was over. Technically my day couldn't get any worse.

I sighed and slouched over to the two of them.

"Don't you think a stakeout is taking things rather far?" I asked as I plopped down on an empty armchair next to the couch.

"It's not a stakeout," said Bea.

I raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I'm sure this is all just a rather hilarious coincidence."

"This may be shocking for you to hear, Charlotte, but in this particular instance, we are not intentionally trying to antagonize you," said George. "Really, we're here for me. I didn't want to see anything I can't unsee while the two of you were up in the dormitory and I reckoned it'd be safest to wait down here."

The truth, I suspected, probably had more to do with Bea and the romantic potential presented by a late night and an empty common room, but I played along. "You're being overdramatic, but I'm too tired to argue with you."

George grinned cheekily back at me. "That's all I ever really wanted to hear."

"Anyway," said Bea, rolling her eyes at George, "I  _was_  keeping him company, but I was also waiting because I wanted to have a word with you privately." She looked meaningfully at George, who heaved a sort of put-upon sigh before slowly getting to his feet.

"I suppose that's my cue to bugger off," he said as he stood.

"It certainly is, you clever, clever boy," said Bea cheerfully. "Go to bed. It's late." Her sharp, teasing smile softened for just a second. "And thanks for the chat. I appreciate it."

I'll give him this: he managed to give Bea the sort of perfectly normal smile that you'd give to any completely platonic friend who was thanking you for something. But his eyes were warm in a subtle sort of way that you might not otherwise notice if you didn't think to look.

"Anytime," he said.

It was the sort of thing that made me want to sigh because it was so sweet and also bash their heads together because  _how was it possible for two people to be so infuriating?_

George, unaware of my internal dialogue about his romantic life, turned to me. "And hey, happy birthday, Charlotte. Sorry it went a bit sideways for you."

It was almost enough to make me forgive him for that damn notebook. Almost. But not quite.

I settled for a soft smile instead. "Thanks, George."

"Right, that's enough chatter," said Bea, making a shooing motion with her hands. "Clear off, George. I've many important things to discuss with Charlotte."

It is perhaps a testament to George's good humor that he merely grinned at her and didn't look at all annoyed. "And goodnight to you as well, Miss Pierce."

"Out!"

With one last parting grin at Bea, George left the common room, taking the stairs two at a time.

"You're rather pushy," I observed to Bea, giving her a scolding sort of look.

Bea looked unbothered. "Oh, he's fine. I've intentionally tried to irritate him and it hasn't worked yet."

"Why would you  _intentionally_  try to irritate someone?"

She shrugged. "I'm a scientist at heart. I need to know these things."

"I've never taken a Muggle Studies course, but I'm reasonably confident in saying that you are greatly misinterpreting the work of scientists."

"That's not important," said Bea briskly. "What  _is_  important is the fact that I need to speak with you about two things, the first being the fact that I haven't given you your birthday present." For the first time, I noticed a brightly wrapped parcel on the seat next to her. She picked it up and chucked it at me and I caught it rather easily.

"I hope it's not fragile," I said, turning the package over in my hands. It was small and square, about the size of a tangerine.

"Not especially."

I slid my thumb under the seam of the wrapping paper and tore it off the package, revealing a small velvet box, the kind that you usually put jewelry in. I opened the box to discover a small, delicate pair of silver earrings.

They were trains.

"I expect these to become a family heirloom," said Bea solemnly, her eyes dancing with barely suppressed laughter.

I struggled for a moment to find the right words. "You're a genuine maniac, you know that, right?"

"I rather prefer mad genius," said Bea with a grin.

"Maybe, but you're still bats." I laughed, taking one of the earrings out of the box. "How long have you been planning this?"

"I owled in the order in January," she said. "I told you: I'm committed to this metaphor."

"Clearly," I said as I examined the earring. Joking aside, it was a rather remarkable piece of jewelry. It was rendered in exquisite detail that I couldn't help but admire—the tiny wheels and coupling rods actually moved and a little tuft of steam puffed from the chimney when the wheel made a complete rotation.

"I should note that they  _do_  make some that whistle, but I restrained myself seeing as they'd be right by your ears," said Bea.

"I appreciate your self-control," I said, gently placing the earring back in the box. "These are rather wonderful. Thank you."

Bea beamed. "You're quite welcome." Her smile faded slightly. "I am sorry your birthday was…well. Not ideal, certainly."

I shrugged. "'S all right. I'm not much for birthdays, you know that."

"Still…" She waited for about half a second, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. "And that actually brings me to the second thing I wanted to speak with you about." She took a deep breath. "I wanted to say I'm really sorry about this morning. And this afternoon, I suppose. I didn't realize, obviously."

For as frustrated as I'd been with Bea earlier, it was easy to forgive her—she looked like she genuinely felt bad about it, like she'd maybe spent the last several hours worrying that I was upset with her.

"I know. It's all right," I said.

"Well, no, it isn't." A slight crease was forming in between her eyebrows, her mouth settling into a frown. "I ought to have noticed that you were upset. I mean, it's clear to me  _now_ , of course, and I should have caught on earlier. A lot earlier, if I'm being honest."

"Bea, there's really no reasonable way that you could have guessed that's what happened," I said gently. "And I'm good at hiding when I'm upset. You know that."

She sighed and drew her knees up to her chest. "You're good, but you're not  _that_  good. I know you well enough that I can usually tell when something isn't quite right, even if I don't necessarily know what it is."

That statement made me feel a little uneasy and I wondered what else she might have caught onto.

"It's all right," I said instead. "Really—I mean it."

"Well. I feel guilty about it." She twisted a curl around her forefinger and a slight smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. "Though…are you going to be angry with me if I ask you how  _tonight_  went?"

I couldn't help it: I laughed. The truth was too funny and strange for me to even consider trying to invent a proper fiction. "Honestly? We talked for a little while and then we both fell asleep. I'm not trying to be evasive or tactful: that's genuinely what happened."

It was a relief to be able to tell the truth for once.

Bea smiled, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "I'm rather inclined to believe that based on how exhausted you looked at the end of dinner." That slightly teasing look returned for just a moment. "Though this  _does_  mean that you've  _literally_ slept together."

I rolled my eyes. "Fred already made that joke."

"I'd be disappointed in him if he hadn't." She raised her eyebrows. "But on that subject… _do_ you have any big plans?"

I shrugged, though I could feel my cheeks reddening. "None since the last time you asked me. We're playing it by ear."

Bea snorted. "I can't imagine you  _not_  planning something like that." She smiled. "But I think that's probably why Fred's good for you, you know?"

We were edging toward territory that made me feel rather guilty and uncomfortable. The fact that Bea seemed to genuinely believe that Fred was a good match for me in important and meaningful ways not only emphasized the fact that I was lying to her and she trusted me enough to believe my lies, but that I perhaps didn't fully understand the impact that my lies would have.

"I dunno, I guess," I said with a nervous sort of laugh. Fortunately, Bea was too focused on the topic at hand to really notice any irregularities with my reaction.

"Promise me you'll tell me when you go through with it," she said earnestly.

The absence of 'if' in that particular statement sent another wave of guilt through me.

"Oh please, why wouldn't I tell you?" I said.

"I mean, if I'm being honest, part of the reason why I've been so annoying about this is because I'm worried if I don't push, you won't tell me and I hate being left out."

I smirked and raised an eyebrow. "You? Worried about being annoying? Are you feeling well?"

"Stop it, I'm being serious," she said, bit of a whine creeping into her voice. "I get really insecure about that sort of thing. I suppose there's part of me that thinks you're going to find a new best friend and then I won't have anyone to talk to."

"Bea, if you genuinely think I could replace you, then you're absolutely mad."

And really, if one of us should have been worried, it was me: I'd told a lot of lies. Repeatedly. It didn't seem all that far-fetched to wonder if Bea might want to find a new best friend when all my lies caught up with me.

Again, note the absence of 'if.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you so much for reading and taking the time to review or comment!
> 
> I'm now on Wattpad as akabluekat. I'll be uploading my work over the next couple weeks. Follow me! I follow back.
> 
> I'm going to be honest: the next two chapters are going to be transitional stuff and setup for some things that you don't know about yet. They won't be the most exciting entries in this story, but they're necessary. They'll also be a bit on the shorter side—which for me is like 3K to 4K words. I hope that isn't too disappointing.
> 
> However, Chapter 22 is going to be a banger of a chapter and I'm extremely excited about it.
> 
> Chapter 21 will be posted by mid-March 2019.


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